


War in Winter

by Ruminavi



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Blanket Fic, Eventual Fluff, Fantasy, Happy Ending, Historical References, Hot Springs & Onsen, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Just Add Ninjas, M/M, Military, Misunderstandings, Original Fiction, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-06-24 21:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 53,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruminavi/pseuds/Ruminavi
Summary: Ira distrusts his Queen's hired assassin. It turns out the assassin isn't too fond of him either. But when the kingdom is under threat from an invading army, they are forced to work together in order to stand up for what they love.Complete original fic.





	1. Chapter 1

Ira instantly disliked Lore.

His appearance had been too timely to be coincidental. 

Ira did not know a lot about the trained assassin agents of the southern kingdom, but he knew enough to know that if one showed up on your doorstep claiming to hold insider secrets from your most dangerous enemy, you should be at least somewhat suspicious. And if said assassin claimed to want to work for free, that suspicion should double. And lastly, if that assassin should have nothing to offer as collateral – no guarantee of his loyalty but his word – he should be killed immediately and his body thrown over the parapets. It simply was not worth the risk. 

He was explaining this to his Queen, her majesty Roven XXII, pacing up and down the length of her reading room, when she held up a hand to silence him. He stilled immediately, pressing his mouth into a tight line.

“You’ve said all this before.” Rov looked up at Ira from behind her writing desk. She had a quill between her fingers and she looked tired and annoyed. Dark circles made her clear gray eyes appear shadowed sunken. It had been a long week.

Under normal circumstances, Ira would have been more protective of her energy. As Cairn’s warlord he was her second in command, they worked together tightly, watched each others’ backs, and rarely disagreed. When they did, he almost always bowed to her will, as both his elder and his leader. 

The arrival of the assassin had thrown their relationship into chaos. Her lack of caution alarmed and distressed him. She seemed not to hear his warnings. Her intractability on an issue that seemed obvious to him replaced his usual deference and care with frustration. 

“We don’t need him,” Ira said stubbornly, aware that Rov was right on one score – they had had this conversation a hundred times in the past months since he had appeared and it had made no difference in her opinion.

“If you wanted an agent we could have hired one. One without a questionable backstory. One whose loyalty we could verify and assure.” He bit out the words, knowing his argument was useless even as he voiced it. 

Rov sighed and looked away from him. She had the demeanor of a woman fighting an old battle and holding her position with all the calm authority of her position and authority. And just a little of the cockiness of royalty. 

“I like this one,” she said finally. Then she looked at him hard.

“I understand where this is coming from Ira. But what happened to your father was a long time ago, and this isn’t the same. We can trust Lore. I know it.” Ira was shocked to silence, brought up short against this new and unexpected verbal attack. 

When Ira was eleven, his father had been killed by an undercover attack sent by a coalition of smaller lords. They had hoped to unseat the recently-crowned Rov. His father had stopped them, at the cost of his own life. 

Ira had not brought the incident up, knowing that she might use it as evidence of his own irrationality on the subject. But she’d dredged it up anyway. How could he make her understand that this was not an emotional reaction but a logical one?

Her attack on his neutrality made him realize he was losing. Again. And the last thing he wanted to do was make her angry enough to give him a direct order. If she told him to cease his protests permanently, he would be compelled to obey. And then he would be truly powerless. He’d have to watch as the assassin traitor pulled apart his little kingdom piece by piece and say nothing about it. 

Instead of saying anything he placed one hand over his heart - the Cairnish salute – and bowed his head.

“I will try, Rov. But please…at least be cautious.” Her eyes swung back up to him, bemused. 

“I am always cautious, Ira,” she replied. Here we are on the verge of war, Ira thought, a time when caution gets thrown to the wind – especially the caution of hot-blooded, stubborn, over-tired royalty. But he pressed his lips together and said nothing. 

“Leave me to my letters, Ira. I will see you in the council shortly.” Obediently, Ira let himself out of the room, sliding the ornate doors carefully closed behind him. He could feel a headache coming on. 

In the hallway, two guards on either side stood to attention. Ira paused to eye them both critically. They shifted uncertainly under his gaze, meeting each others’ eyes in the silence.

Both were young but able soldiers. Ira knew because he had overseen their training personally. This was the way of all of Rov’s soldiers. Ira took a personal interest. It meant that he knew his people on an individual bases, and had a strong sense of their strengths and weaknesses. It also meant that they were as loyal to him as they were to Rov, if not more.

If Rov was going to be foolish, he could at least ensure that she was surrounded by people with a rigorous sense of duty. 

“Trust no one.” He said quietly, so that Rov would not hear on the other side of the door. “Especially not strangers.” He knew his meaning would not be missed. The one on the right nodded crisply, acknowledging his words.

Ira felt moderately reassured, but he could not shake the feeling of unease as he descended to the courtyard and his officers’ quarters below. 

~*~ 

An hour later Rov’s council gathered in their chambers around the great oak table: Ten generals, Ira, Rov, and, to Ira’s consternation, her assassin pet. The stranger, whose name was Lore, was seated unobtrusively to the side of the room, cloaked in shadow. But Ira saw him and felt a stab of anger. Was Rov doing this just to provoke him?

Everyone was dressed formally and talking in serious tones. The candles lit worried faces, set jaws, and hard eyes. 

There was a war coming, and they could feel it.

Ira glared at the shadowed assassin and wondering when and how he would report back to his true masters, now that he had gained access to their inner sanctum.  
Ira had to admit that he had been effective. The assassin’s natural charisma had charmed everyone at Cairn, even if it grated on Ira. He was beautiful, friendly, and told an irresistible tale of personal tragedy. He claimed to have been betrayed by their common enemy. There had been a fight, he said, between his brother and one of the Lord Tavish’s top generals. His brother had been killed unjustly. Now he sought revenge by aligning himself with the people most likely to come up against the marauding Tavish next - Cairn. He asked for no fee except the chance to avenge himself on Tavish if the opportunity presented itself. 

Nothing but a clever tale, as far as Ira was concerned.

Ira couldn’t see his features in the dark chamber, but he knew the shadows hid a shock blonde and warm olive skin. For a southerner who looked so exotic and out of place, he had slid easily into their lives.

Sure he had sworn an oath of fidelity before the Queen and her court, but Ira saw no reason to trust his word. He was a stranger. No one knew him or could speak for his character. The alleged death of his brother meant he conveniently had no family to hold as collateral - no partner or children or even friend to take as guarantee of his good behaviour. He did not even know his parents, having been sold to an assassin’s school as a young boy.

He tried not to let it be generally known that he and Rov disagreed on this matter, although he knew that others at court had picked up on the tension. Ira served Rov, as his father had served Rov’s father, and his mother before that, going back generations. Even if they argued, his loyalty was unshakable. Their disagreement stemmed from his concern for her and his desire to protect to homeland. Ultimately, he knew, he would obey her – even if it was against his better judgement.

Lost in thought, Ira missed Rov’s opening remarks. The council was in session.

“Tavish will not wait for the roads to freeze,” Miko was guessing aloud. “He will not want to give us time to prepare. It is the same pattern he followed with Abosa in the west, last year. Besides, his army will be restless after a summer of inaction.”  
Rov chewed speculatively on one lip. “Tavish spent most of the summer mopping up after Abosa castle fell. There were reports of unsanctioned raids in the outer villages, which makes me wonder about how much control he has over them. You may be right.”

“But surely he knows that marching before the roads freeze would be madness,” Hael countered in his deep rumbling baritone, shaking his bearded head. “The road through the lowlands is impassible at this time of year. He will lose horses and men to the muck before he even comes close to us. And he will risk getting caught in snow squalls in the pass. No one could be that foolish.”

“He may have no choice in the matter,” Miko shrugged. “If the army is bored and full of themselves and itching for a new conquest.” 

“If not him, then surely his generals will see sense,” reasoned another councillor, the priest Ven, sounding incredulous. “They may be restless, but not restless enough to risk their lives. Surely they will settle down in Abosa and enjoy the spoils of war until the season is more favorable.” 

Ira was about to agree with this later opinion, but when he looked up he caught sight of the spy, who was wearing a thoughtful expression on his face. Ira gritted his teeth. In the space where the warlord might have spoken, a brief, thoughtful silence descended on the room. 

Rov’s eyes flicked up from the faces around her table to the assassin by the door. Around the room, all eyes turned to follow the direction of her gaze. She, too, had noticed his interest.

“What do you think, Lore?” The question was asked quietly, but Ira could see it was a test from the set of her grey eyes. “You have told me that when you left, it was commonly known that Tavish would move on un in Cairn once Abosa had been secured. Did he seem in a great hurry?”

The thoughtful look faded, and was replaced with amusement. Bright blue eyes flickered in the dark face, true thoughts hidden behind their sparkle. That man is the embodiment of duplicitous, Ira thought. His own eyes narrowed with dislike. 

“It is impossible to say for certain, my lady” answered Lore’s smooth voice after a moment. 

“I am sorry I cannot be of more help on this matter.” There was a brief pause. Ira held his breath. Then, “as your general Miko has observed, Tavish has imperfect control of his forces and, although skilled in schemes, is not a competent leader.” There was a suggestion of a shrug. “Anything could happen.”

A safe answer, Ira fumed. The assassin’s observations added nothing, and possibly strengthened the irrational speculations already voiced by Miko. It was impossible that Tavish would move so soon, and sending out a force, even a small one, would reveal their hand and weaken Cairn. They needed to focus on preparing for the coming battle in the winter. Miko drummed her fingers on the table, thinking. 

“I think the most prudent course of action is to send a small mobile force to the south, where our informants among the villages have reported seeing travellers bearing Tavish’s colours,” she said with her usual confidence. Ira opened his mouth to protest, but she continued.

“With a full contingent of messengers and the swiftest horses we can spare.” There was some nodding around the table, even from Hael and Ven who had apparently taken the assassin at his word. Ira looked around in disbelief. 

“Even if Tavish doesn’t move this fall, it will be easy for a small force to remain for the winter,” Hael added. Miko smiled. 

“Exactly. And the moment he moves, we will be ready to counter him. Well-rested and warm from the fires of Cairn. Like the old saying goes, when the enemy attacks, he is most vulnerable.” Ira had taught her that saying. He hadn’t thought she would use it to justify such a foolish move. But, unbelievably, Rov was nodding too. 

“I will think about who to send. If Abosa moves soon, or is already moving, it will have to be a competent group, with enough firepower to launch an ambush immediately, if needed.” Ira frowned down at the table. Sending any force south, let alone some of Cairn’s best, would leave the castle more poorly defended. If Tavish learned of their plot, he could easily send a force from the East or West and catch them short men and horses. But it was too late to raise these points without undermining Rov’s decision. 

In truth, there was nothing wrong with the plan – if they assumed that the assassin was trustworthy. The only way that Tavish would learn of their project was if the assassin betrayed them. Ira wasn’t ready to make that assumption. But at this point, to protest the plan would be to cast doubt on his loyalty. It would sow discontent among the council, which had already accepted the man’s presence on Rov’s word. 

Rov looked around the room. 

“It is nearly dark. We will reconvene in the morning to finalize these plans.” The Queen rapped her knuckles on the Oak table, signalling the end to the session. With a murmur, her councillors rose and began to trickle out. 

Even though he watched him like a hawk, Ira did not see the assassin leave. When he looked at the place where he had been standing, there was simply no one there. 

~*~

The moon was high, so Ira could see the assassin waiting for him easily next to the entrance to his rooms. The man leaned casually on the sandstone wall, arms crossed. He was still skinny from his journey through the Cairnish mountains, but managed to be the picture of lithe confidence despite his smaller stature. Ira stopped ten feet before the door, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his shortsword and hailed the assassin with as little friendliness as possible.

“What do you want?” he called out lightly. The other looked up and smiled. 

The expression made Ira extremely nervous. There was no way that the assassin had failed to notice Ira’s feelings about him. Ira was also aware of the fact that, as far as targets went, he was a good one. If the assassin killed him there would be no one to pull the generals together, lead the army, or communicate between Rov and her people. 

But there were soldiers everywhere here. Ira knew that a single shouted word would bring a large portion of Rov’s army pouring into the street within seconds. Any move on behalf of the assassin would be pure foolishness. The assassin would be killed before he could blink if he attempted anything now. 

But that did not mean Ira would not be cautious. 

The assassin straightened on Ira’s unfriendly greeting and came toward Ira a few steps, placing himself fully in the pale blue light of the moon. He moved with a liquid grace, but in the full light Ira could see his features more clearly. He was shorter and slighter than Ira, dressed in loose black silks. He had large blue eyes, which belied his deadliness. His halo of rough, dirty blonde hair cut short in the style of the sea people He had fine brows and lips, and high cheekbones. The only thing that took away from his perfection was a slightly crooked nose – it looked like it had broken long ago and not reset. As he greeted Ira he spread long fingers on strong hands in an imploring gesture.

“You don’t trust me,” the assassin said, sounding hurt. He was trying to look innocent. Ira was having none of it. 

“What gave you that idea?” he asked dryly, looking down at the assassin across the cobblestones, contemptuous. 

“What can I do to put you at ease, warlord? I mean you no harm, and I hate your enemies as much as you do. If there is something more I can do to convince you of this, you must tell me so I can do it.” Ira’s eyes narrowed. The assassin was relaxed and apparently unarmed, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. His very composure was enough to make Ira seethe. How dare he walk around here, like he owned the place? He should be in chains.

“I follow the orders of my queen.” Ira replied coldly. The assassin leaned forward, and Ira was unexpectedly struck by his terrible beauty. The moon lit up his olive skin and glowed in his strange blonde hair. Was this the reason for the easy way he had ingratiated himself to everyone? Ira caught his breath as the assassin studied him calmly, lips pursed. 

“Barely,” the southerner observed, a hint of teasing in his voice. Ira tensed, disliking the accusation. What right had this stranger to comment on his relationship with Rov? He was forcing an issue Ira had been very careful to be diplomatic about. He felt anger boiling up in him. 

“I have nothing to say to you, assassin.” Ira’s voice was sharper than he intended, showing a degree of anger he had not planned to reveal. The other man leaned back from the force of it, surprised but the open vehemence. 

“As you wish, warlord,” he replied softly, after a moment’s pause. “but it will make both of our lives’ easier if we can learn to work together. For the good of Cairn.”

Ira said nothing, leaving his hand on the hilt of his sword, his body still and his eyes hard. His body radiated tension. For the good of Cairn. Not a chance, you evil bastard. There was a moment of silence while they eyed each other. Then the assassin shrugged. 

“As you wish,” he signed, and turned away, leaving Ira angry and alone and frustrated under the bright cold moon. 

~*~

Lore was in Cairn’s library when Rov told Ira her decision. So he got to witness the full glory of the warlord’s temper tantrum.

Lore had explained to Rov that he needed access to the library so that he could study Cairnish geography and culture and thereby work more easily for her against Tavish’s advance. 

But since then, Lore had found the library offered a different sort of education. Its large clear windows offered a perfect view of the castle’s central courtyard. The necessity of Cairn’s architecture dictated that everyone passed through the courtyard below the library window as they moved between the castle, its military barracks, and the city. It was an excellent place to observe the pulse of Cairnish life as it passed in real time. And although Lore came to the library ostensibly to read, he spent most of his time watching people pass below learning Cairn’s habits and inconsistencies and customs. 

Rov had given her orders early in the morning, pulling Miko from her bed before the sun had risen. Lore knew because he had watched it happen. He always exercised before dawn, when the courtyard was empty and quiet. So he had been just wiping the sweat from his brow when he saw the sleepy page descended from the castle and crossed to the officers’ quarters to fetch the general. 

Now, Lore watched from his vantage point in the library and speculated. What factors had gone into Rov’s decision? Had it been his own endorsement of the plan? He doubted it, but he couldn’t be sure. How many would they send? What route would they take? Would Cairn have its own assassin-agents among them? 

Miko was below with her unit, engaged in the business of loading horses. One hand rested absently on an open scroll he’d meant to read -- it was covered in maps that Lore was not looking at. The other hand gently tugged at a strand of unruly blonde hair, pensive. 

Lore perked up the moment the Ira exploded out of the double wooden doors that separated the barracks from the main castle. He was a big man: handsome, muscular, and athletic with a serious face, long black hair, and dark, intelligent eyes. Ira was dressed in soft leather armour over cotton, with the cloak of his office swirling behind him. He looked, as he always did in public, every inch the military commander. His proud bearing made him seem even larger than he was. He took up space, both physically and in personality. He had a magnetism about him that Lore (and everyone else, apparently) had a difficult time resisting. It made Lore intensely curious. Although Lore had been trained since childhood to accurately evaluate other people, he found Ira annoyingly unpredictable. He was impossible to read. He could be hot-headed and arrogant in one moment, and then affectionate and soft in the next. As a whole the most that could be said of the man was that he was mercurial and intensely distrustful. And his people loved him. All of that made him, in Lore’s eyes, extremely dangerous. 

He wondered what the man was like in private, when he had his armour (physical and mental) fully off. It was the reason he’d approached Ira last night – hoping to get a glimpse at who the man was beyond his cold, military exterior. It had proved ill-advised, as it turned out. But at least now Lore knew where he stood with the man. 

Lore’s eyes tracked Ira with interest as horses and men alike scattered from his path as he strode across the yard toward Miko. Even from high above, Lore could see the set of his jaw under its stubble and the flash of irritation in his dark eyes.

So. Ira had finally learned the plan. And, further, found out that Rov had made the decision without him. And Ira was angry.  
The assassin leaned forward to get a better look. Now he would see something interesting. 

Since he had arrived in Cairn Lore had been astonished by the lack of politics present in the power hierarchies of the city state. Lore’s southern home was rife with intrigue – power could change hands within the span of hours, given the right circumstances. Assassinations and coups and negotiations were a familiar part of political life. For this reason, the southern city states were also the location of a booming economy in hired agents with a variety of clandestine skills. He had been sold to a school for assassins as a young child and brought up to serve this system. It was the only thing he knew. 

Here in the north there was little apparent disagreement or bitterness between people, and almost no grappling for power. Hiring assassins was rare. The mountain kingdoms had no assassin schools of their own. Lore had been deeply surprised to experience this difference for himself, and wondered if it was an act, or if he was simply too unfamiliar with northern culture to see it. 

Now he wondered if he was about to finally see the dark side of Cairnish politics. Would there be open dissention in Rov’s perfect ranks? Would Miko defy Ira if he told her to disobey their queen? Was this the fault line in Cairn’s air-tight military order? 

He couldn’t wait to find out. A dark smile lifted the corner of his mouth. 

Miko was busy tightening the leather straps of a pack on the cobble-stones as Ira approached, so she didn’t see her leader until the last second. When he stopped in front of her, arms crossed, she winced and straightened, looking uncomfortable. The corner of Lore’s mouth twitched in amusement. She knew what was coming. 

Lore couldn’t hear the words that were exchanged, but he could imagine them. He had studied these individuals and their characteristics in great detail, and made extensive notes on their communication styles. Ira would be reserved but annoyed, torn between anger about Rov’s decision and fear of embarrassing both of them in front of Miko’s soldiers. Miko would reply lightly, appealing to their normally playful relationship. She might blame Rov for the choice, but above all she would be conciliatory and sensitive to Ira’s rage, hoping to avoid open conflict. Lore did not know if this strategy would hold up in the face of Ira’s emotions. Miko would be conciliatory to a point, but Lore knew from his observations that she could be impatient and prone to the occasional blow up. Lore wondered if she’d be able to hold her temper long enough to placate her commander.

There was some tense gesturing below. Miko put her hands on her hips. Ira crossed his across his chest. Things looked like they might be about to get openly hostile.

Then, as if noticing all the soldiers around them for the first time, Ira looked around, jaw still a tight line, and pointed to the officer’s quarters. Miko gave an order to a man nearby to deal with her half-closed pack, and jogged after Ira. He had turned and walked away without waiting for her. They disappeared together into the officers’ quarters. Too bad They were going to have their little spat in private.

Lore sat back. So it wouldn’t be public. But could they come to an agreement? Ira disliked Rov’s plan deeply. Lore knew Ira thought that Rov was not thinking defensively, leaving the city vulnerable. Both Lore and Rov thought that Ira was being too conservative. Rov needed to get ahead of Tavish if she wanted to protect her people. 

Adding intrigue to the situation was the fact that Miko and Ira frequently disagreed, and it was common knowledge that Ira thought his youngest captain too hot-headed and impulsive to be trusted on her own. This caused (mostly) good natured bickering between them, with Ira playing the part of the over-worried mother hen and Miko the rebellious teenager. It was obvious that this was a pattern they had fallen into with each other over a long period of time. Habitual, comfortable, and based in their mutual love for Rov and for Cairn. 

But now Rov was using it against them, and with the stakes so much higher a miner disagreement could easily become open dissent.

Lore thought back to the distrust in the eyes of Rov’s personal guards when he had entered her chambers the night before. As much as Ira tried to hide his dissent, Ira’s soldiers picked up on his dislike of Lore. Or maybe Ira had even given them orders to watch him. He wasn’t sure. What was certain was that the the disagreement between Rov and her warlord was causing fractures in the smooth façade of Cairnish authority.

All of this was at stake in the conversation going on behind closed doors in the officers quarters. With its details obscured from view, Lore tried to guess how the exchange between Ira and Miko would end. 

Lore accepted that he couldn’t get an exact fix on Ira’s personality, but Miko was easier. She was the kind of person form whom most skills came easily. She could not understand incompetence. She was optimistic and energetic, and did not know how to take “no” for an answer. She was also fiercely independent and rebellious by nature. Her strong character had seen her rise quickly through the ranks, but also led her to ruffle feathers among Rov’s cohort of generals. She had learned to temper her opinions, but could be abrasive and overly brash. 

Knowing all this, Lore was surprised when the two emerged from the doorway a few minutes later looking companionable and walking side-by-side. Miko was explaining something, gesturing with both hands, and Ira was listening thoughtfully. The line on his jaw was softened. His gaze had lost its hardness. 

Lore leaned forward a little more, trying to catch the subtleties of the warlord’s expression. Relaxed? Resigned? Triumphant? The only observation that Lore came away with was that Ira was a shockingly handsome man, when he wasn’t scowling. 

The soldiers, without Miko, had finished packing and were nearly ready to leave. Miko’s man brought her packed horse to her, passing her the reigns. The horse followed Miko placidly as she walked at Ira’s side. Around them, girths were being tightened and saddle buckles checked. The final preparations for leaving we well underway, and the soldiers eyed their commanders, ready for the order.

Ira and Miko stopped in the middle of the courtyard, still talking. Lore could not imagine the subject. Technicalities, perhaps? Miko grinned suddenly, and Lore thought he saw the trace of a smile dart across Ira’s lips. Some inside joke perhaps. 

Then Ira – the grand warlord, second only to the Queen, caught Miko in an embrace, surprising his general, whose laugh floated up faintly through the glass of the library window. Miko hugged him back and the two held on to each other for a long time. 

The display of affection took Lore by surprise. He knew that Ira had Miko personally, and that the two had worked closely together. He suspected they had a kind of father-daughter relationship, but had never heard or seen it acted out. At least, not the loving side of it. Looking carefully, Lore could see that Ira was speaking into her ear as he held her. Miko nodded, and thumped Ira on the back in affection. When they finally pulled apart, they held each other’s gaze for a long time. Around them, people were swinging into their saddles and getting ready to depart, but Ira and Miko took no notice. They were in their own world.

Ira took Miko’s face in his hands, leaned close. Lore couldn’t tell if anything was spoken, but something passed between the two of them. Be careful, perhaps. Miko smiled, placing her hands over Ira’s and nodding. Ira released his general, dropping his arms to his sides. 

Lore couldn’t tell for sure, but some of the mirth that had been in Ira was gone. Ira had physically folded in on himself. He seemed almost defeated. He would miss his general, for all the trouble she gave him. And he was worried about her. It was almost sweet. Lore felt his opinion of the warlord warming slightly. If he was consistently cold and distrustful to Lore, his relationships with others indicated a man devoted to his people on a deeply personal level. For all Cairn’s efficient militarism, this was not a people who sacrificed emotion and caring for discipline. 

Released from Ira’s grasp, Miko swung effortlessly into her saddle. Her horse shifted impatiently beneath her, ready to be off. Around them, the others were moving out, and the clatter of hooves and the shouting of soldiers drifted to Lore’s ears. It only took a few moments for the whole group – 40 soldiers and horses – to assemble. And then they were off, trotting toward the big double gates that were swinging open to the farmland beyond Cairn. 

Lore watched as Ira stood in the courtyard. The warlord watched them go. His expression was invisible. He arms hung at his sides, his shoulders slumped. He waited until the gates closed behind the group, shuttering his view of retreating horses for the last time. Then he turned back to the castle and disappeared back into its depths. 

Lore let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, turning his gaze back to the manuscript at hand. 

There was a complicated man, he thought. Complicated, and full of unknown motives, and overly suspicious. Not the kind of man Lore needed hanging around. He would only make things more difficult. 

~*~

With Miko gone, Ira took control over more of Cairn’s day-to-day life and Lore observed him, trying to get a handle on the man’s personality and motives. There wasn’t much else to do, now that Miko was gone. Below him, day in and day out, Rov’s army sparred, trained recruits, worked with horses, sharpened weapons, drilled. It was an endless rotation of men and women in leather and chainmail, competent, orderly, and serious. At the centre of it all was Ira, like a gear in a great machine or a composer directing a grand orchestra. 

It was not unpleasant work. Lore increasingly found that Ira was good to look at. He was attractive and charismatic and funny. He often worked with his shirt off, steaming like an overworked horse in the cold late-autumn air. He moved with a surprising grace, for a man so large and muscular. And his rapport with his people was flawless – he knew all of them well, and could discipline them and tease them and make them feel at ease with a simple look or well-placed word. He was a natural leader, and watching him work his magic was intensely enjoyable for Lore. 

One of the great mysteries Lore had faced when he arrived was how this little society, perched so precariously among its rocks, had remained undisturbed for so long. In the south, castles and crowns traded hands swiftly with the shifting of loyalties and fortune. But here Cairn had stood for generations, more or less undisturbed, its lineage going back in time generations. Attempted coups bounced off it. Invaders seemed able to muster little enthusiasm for conquest, even when they possessed vastly superior forces. Siegers gave up and went home after one winter. Nothing seemed able to shake the unwavering stability of the city.  
Watching Ira and his people, Lore began to understand why. Rov’s ancestors had built a tradition of discipline, loyalty, and fraternity which underpinned every aspect of life. Duplicity was rare. Cowardice unheard of. Injustice utterly untolerated. People held their relationships to each other in the highest regard, and their duty to their queen was absolute. 

At the centre of the steadily turning cycles of duty and fraternity and loyalty in the heart of Cairnish life was its lynchpin: Ira, Cairn’s warlord. He embodied all of these values and executed them flawlessly in his daily life. Lore found him obnoxiously perfect, and wondered if the man’s sense of morality and duty ever faltered. 

Everyone had vices, imperfections, and weak spots. Lore was sure Ira had them. Jealousy? Anger management? Greed? Sexual perversion? But they remained stubbornly hidden from his view.

Some days Ira would be soberly seated at the edge of the yard, leaning on his sword, watching as the youths sparred under the direction of some captain. The youngsters worked harder with their warlord there, fighting for his notice and approval. He gave both generously. 

Other days he was leading drills on horseback as a group of thirty riders wheeled and spun in perfect unison, imitating the flow of battle. If things were not completely smooth, he stopped them, wheeled them through the motions again, until man and horse moved a smoothly as river water. 

Other times he wrestled bare-chested with his equals, of which there were few, or sparred with a shocking variety of weapons. He was unafraid of humiliation and defeat, and treated everyone with equanimity. 

His regard was returned. Wherever he went, his people had eyes only for him. They adored him. They would follow him, as they would Rov, to their death. They never questioned him, just loved him. His charisma was part of this, but it was also just part of it was the character of Cairnish people, for whom duplicity was a foreign concept. 

Ira himself seemed oblivious to his place at the centre of things, but loved his people back with the same intensity that they loved him. It was a complete cycle of which Lore was not a part. He could only observe from the outside, with admiration and jealousy. 

Yet Lore knew that Cairn’s loyalty and love for Ira and Rov was the city’s strength as well as its weakness. If anything happened to Ira or Rov, Cairn would be crushed. They would not be able to function. They would fall apart completely. 

Lore especially enjoyed watching Ira in the evenings. after the dust had settled and darkness had begun to cloak the yard from view. Every night almost without fail the warlord could be seen below, spinning slowly and deliberately through a series of drills with his great longsword. Sweat would dampen his hair and steam would rise from his body as the air cooled. Lore, transfixed, watched him dance the length of the courtyard and back again – a perfect symphony of strength and agility. A god of love and war. Deadliness personified.

And then one night he noticed something. 

He sat up abruptly. 

There.

A weakness.

~*~

As was his habit in the evenings, Ira was drilling with his greatsword alone. There was a storm coming. He could feel it in the air. The sound of his breath was the only noise disturbing the quiet evening as he completed the last series of movements in his drill, his sword flashing in the dusk as he rotated up on the balls of his feet, pulled the haft neatly to his hip, pushed out again in a stab, spun again, his heel swinging long behind him…and came up short as he realized he was being watched. 

The assassin stood calmly at the edge of the courtyard, arms crossed, expression impossible to read in the low light.

Ira recovered from his surprise, completed his interrupted movement, and lowered his sword without sheathing it. He said nothing, waiting for the other to explain his transgression on Ira’s time and space. 

When it came, it was not what Ira expected.

“You have a habit of dropping your eyes before you turn, warlord,” the assassin said softly. “you should be careful.” Here he paused for emphasis, a long finger to a curved lip. 

“It could get you killed.”

Was that a threat? Ira turned his head and spat into the dust. His breath was still rising and falling rapidly with the effort of his dance, but now it quickened again with anger.

“Would you like to try me, assassin?” He demanded contemptuously. 

The other man shrugged. “I watched you. You do it every time. It is a common problem when a man drills alone.”

“Then join me. Or do you fear fighting a man face to face?” Ira had meant this as a jibe, but it appeared not the land. There was no dishonour in a sneak-attack from an assassin’s point of view. 

The southerner considered for a moment, and then shrugged and began removing the loose linen shift and cloak. 

Underneath, Ira saw his body was much thinner than he had expected. Being from closer to the sea, Lore’s skin was bronzed. But now it was hollow over the belly and dropped sharply over each rib, and Ira could see him shiver a little in the cool air. 

“I’m not warm,” Lore observed a bit sheepishly, “but I still think I can show you. And you are tired, so it will even the playing field.”  
Ira said nothing, evaluating him.

“Are you going to put down the sword?” The assassin asked finally. “Otherwise you will almost certainly kill me.”

Ira looked down at his sword and considered his options. His breathing had calmed after his effort, and his anger has sharpened into readiness. 

He was fully aware that the assassin could possibly kill him if he wasn’t careful. Indeed, perhaps this was the opportunity he was waiting for. With Miko gone and Ira dead, there would not be much between the assassin and Rov.

“I’d rather not,” Ira concluded, finally. “Since I am sure you are hiding weapons.” 

The observation appeared to startle the other man, who paused, staring, and then laughed. 

“Fair point, warlord. You are right not to trust me, as it happens. But I meant no deception. I just forgot.” He fingered at his belt until a long blade came free of a hidden sheath inside one pantleg. He flipped it casually. It was a long dirk, forged in black steel - a strange and deadly looking weapon. He held it at the ready position, pointed directly into Ira’s eyes. 

“There, now we are on equal footing,” he said, and Ira detected a mocking tone. 

Greatsword to long knife. Equal footing indeed. 

“Is that all?” Ira asked flatly. 

“I can go naked if it would make you feel better,” the smaller man said lightly, “but its cold and I’m shy.” The wind had picked up a little, and it made the assassin’s black silks flutter and press momentarily against his body. Ira shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. There was a chance the man was still hiding weapons somewhere, but Ira was annoyed and ready to take the risk. Besides, he knew that they were about to engage a style of fighting where he already had an advantage. 

The assassin preferred to attack from behind, with unfair advantage.

Here there would be no sneak attacks. 

Besides, the other man was much smaller than Ira, and skinny. Ira doubted it would be difficult to overpower him, especially if he could get in close where he could use his weight to his advantage.

Ira gestured with his blade. “come on then. Show me the legendary ability of your southern assassin’s school.” 

Lore grinned and bounced up on the balls of his feet, ready. Ira stayed motionless, waiting.

“Keep in mind that I’m trying to help you improve warlord,” the assassin said lightly, “so pay attention. When you turn with the greatsword, you drop your eyes. That is an opening for an attacker.”

Ira suspected the observation was true, but would not give the other the satisfaction of acknowledgement. “You are an attacker,” Ira replied softly, “so try me.”  
Lore shrugged, and then darted in without warning, the knife flashing toward Ira’s ribs. 

Ira drew in a breath. The assassin was fast. But Ira had no trouble countering the attack with his heavier weapon. There was a hissing of steel as the two blades came together once, twice, three times – Ira parrying neatly as his opponent came on, staying light on his feet, wary and conservative. 

Lore’s attack suddenly changed, the smaller man slipping smoothly toward Ira’s left, forcing the warlord to turn his body or leave his side exposed. Ira matched the movement easily, using the change in the tempo of the fight to step forward into Lore’s space, hoping to push the other man onto his heels. 

Instead, Lore danced backward, out of reach, laughing. Ira pressed his lips together in irritation. 

“Its not fair,” Lore said lightly, “Now you’re self-correcting. I should not have told you anything.” 

“It was a drill,” Ira growled. Perhaps he had looked down once or twice while practicing. A real fight was different.

Lore laughed, and Ira was startled by its openness. “You sound just like a student at the school. They tell me the same thing. ‘Teacher I won’t do it in a real battle!’But drills build habits! That is their point, after all. And if you build a habit of looking down then it will show up in a real battle, sure as the rain.” 

Ira said nothing to this, annoyed at being compared to a student assassin but unable to formulate a clever reply. 

The smaller man came in again, cautiously now, the dirk held low. He began to circle Ira, just outside the range of the greatsword. Ira turned smoothly to follow him. 

An attacker on the outside of the circle always had a longer distance to go, and Ira could wait all night if necessary. Even in the gathering darkness he could see the glint of the assassin’s dark blue eyes.

The attack eventually came, in the opposite direction of Ira’s turning, but he was ready and defended his open side easily against the snaking black knife. 

Lore continued to press the left side, forcing Ira to turn into him, which Ira did, obligingly, for a few strokes. Then he switched the tempo suddenly on the assassin, pressing in with a sudden burst of strength and speed. He had the satisfaction of seeing the other man’s eyes widen in surprise as he was driven back under the flashing greatsword until he was forced to break completely away and out of reach. Ira let him retreat, keeping his expression neutral. 

He wondered how long the assassin would want to play before giving up.

Lore had no clever quips this time and came in again, still cautious. His blows landed with increasing speed as he pushed Ira into the same turning defence he set up before. Ira countered, relaxing into the rhythm, and let his muscles do the work. He turned with Lore, turned again…

And suddenly found himself on his back on the cobble-stones. 

The impact knocked the breath out of him, and his gaped for air. 

Then he felt the ice-cold edge of the black steel blade on his throat.

Lore straddled his chest. Graceful as a dancer, he had pushed one leg extended out to the right, and used the muscular foot to press hard on Ira’s splayed sword arm. Ira’s other arm was pinned uselessly at the wrist under Lore’s firm hand, and Lore’s knife-hand was busy holding the dirk to Ira’s throat. 

The assassin’s face was inches from Ira’s, the bright blue eyes huge and excited, breath coming quickly and shallowly. He blonde hair tumbled around his face. 

“There. I knew it would happen eventually.” 

Ira couldn’t believe it.

The assassin had been right. His eyes had dropped the moment he had relaxed his guard and let habit take over. And then…

And then Lore had moved, faster than Ira had ever seen a human being move. 

He felt rage rising up inside of him and tried unsuccessfully to push it down. It was a feeling he had not experienced for many years. Not since he had been a young man training to be a warrior in Rov’s castle - when he had been brash and proud and overly competitive and quick to humiliation. His training, he had thought, had rid him of such conceits, which served a soldier poorly on the battlefield. And yet here they were, rising up in him like a tide. Embarrassment. Anger. Fear. 

Ira had caught his breath, and struggled now to control himself, to think clearly. 

The assassin had him pinned, but had not killed him – so there was that, anyway. The other man’s grip was firm, but the assassin was light – underweight, even, and so perhaps lighter than he knew. 

Ira took a chance on the assassin’s good will. If he hadn’t killed him yet, he would probably continue to refrain from doing so. Ira heaved upward, suddenly and forcefully, flipping his attacker onto to his back with momentum. Lore hissed in surprise as he was launched from his perch, the dagger coming away from Ira’s throat. Now it was Lore’s turn to hit the cobble-stones on his back as Ira rolled on top of him, using his greater weight to pin the assassin. 

But Lore was fast, and avoided Ira’s grip, slipping out from under his arms and pinning he greatsword to the ground with his dagger in the process.  
With the weapons both immobilized, the sparring match became little more than a scuffle. Ira released his sword rather than struggle to pull it free. Instead he grabbed for the other man’s body with his bare hands as he slipped away, following with relentless speed. Lore landed a punch to his face, but Ira was in battle mode and didn’t even feel it. 

He found a grip on the other man’s hip and using it to pull himself upright while unbalancing his opponent. Lore stumbled, then ducked Ira’s swung fist.  
Ira knew that he had the advantage in close combat. If Lore had space he would be able to use his speed to his advantage, but if Ira kept their bodies close he could use his superior strength to gain the upper hand. So he followed the assassin relentlessly, using his arms to push away a well-aimed kick and pressing his body in close as he sought to find a grip that would immobilize the assassin. 

He found it as Lore came up hard against the courtyard wall, his retreat abruptly arrested. Ira wasted no time in taking advantage of his luck, pressing a leg between 

Lore’s thighs, pinning the man’s wrists with one hand, and pushing a forearm into Lore’s throat. 

There Lore froze, his breath coming fast and hard in the cool night air. Ira pressed perhaps a little harder than he needed to, leaning in close and enjoying the Lore’s flinch of pain as his bare back pressed into the rough stone under Ira’s weight. 

“Be careful, assassin,” Ira hissed. “Don’t pick fights you can’t win.” 

Anger flashed across Lore’s face. It was the first time Ira had seen any sort of malice from the man, and he felt satisfied knowing he had caused it. 

“Why do you hate me so much?” he asked, voice tight. Ira shrugged.

“Rov trusts you. I don’t.”

“Oh congratulations, warlord,” the assassin replied sarcastically, sounding somewhat choked under Ira’s arm. “You’ve caught on to my cunning plan where I come helpless to Cairn begging mercy, pass over all my knowledge and confess my whole past, swear fealty to its lord, and then what? What could I possibly do to you?” There was a real bitterness there, but Ira was deaf to it, certain of the accuracy of his assessment.

“You’ve had her send Miko to scout,” Ira replied, knowing the truth of it even as he said it. “Miko, who has no experience with subterfuge. With a force of forty of our best men and women. You are trying to weaken us.”

“Miko was her choice!” Lore roared, pushing back against Ira in helpless rage. “I had no say in the matter! And she wanted to go! You were there when she said it!”

“You encouraged her,” Ira replied, “Rov would not have sent her if you hadn’t. But you saw your opportunity and you took it. I’m not stupid, assassin. You are safe for now because of Rov, but I am watching you.”

Rather than reply, Lore brought his knee up, hard, between Ira’s legs. 

White stars burst momentarily behind Ira’s eyes. His grip weakened in surprise. 

Lore ripped his hands free and shoved the warlord in the centre of his chest, pushing him backward, stumbling. 

Ira considered grabbing him again, but let the idea go. The assassin had lost all of his mirth, and had become hard and prickly and dangerous. The weather was worsening. The wind blew steadily now, and the faint light from the stars had been obscured by scuttling clouds.

Ira tried hard not to show the pain he felt as he stepped back, yielding a path back to the abandoned weapons lying a few feet away on the cobblestones. 

Lore was still breathing hard, glaring at the warlord. 

“You’re a fool,” the assassin snarled. Ira said nothing. The rage he had felt earlier had cooled into steely resolve. He felt no need to entertain conversation with the other. 

Moving stiffly, Lore picked up the dagger from where it lay next to Ira’s greatsword. He jammed it hard into the hidden sheath on his leg before storming from the dark courtyard, rage radiating from him. Ira waited for the wooden doors to close behind him before picking up his own weapons and retreating to his own quarters to lick his wounds.


	2. Chapter 2

Lore’s foul mood stayed with him well into the next day. He couldn’t believe he had been so ignorant to think that he could break through Ira’s resolve to hate him. And, even worse, that he had lost his temper so catastrophically in return. He had made a fool of himself. And his aching body reminded him of this fact every time he moved. 

The weather suited his dark mood – cold and raining heavily. As had been his habit since his time in school, Lore normally exercised in the morning, before anyone else was awake and in the yard. But the day after his altercation with Ira he stayed in bed until the sun rose. After that he as forced to rise, to meet with Rov. It was a brief conversation. She wanted clarity on the Abosa reports. She was distracted, and Lore was abrupt with her. 

After she dismissed him, Lore retreated to his rooms, where he pulled out and sharpened all of his knives, oiled their sheaths, and made a few repairs to his armour.

As he worked, he reflected. 

He was angry at the warlord – the overly suspicious bastard – but he was also angry at himself. His evening observances of Ira had been misguided, his decision to intervene even more so. It had been pride that had motivated him to say anything at all - a desire for acknowledgement from the great warlord of Cairn, whom everyone worshiped.

Lore, like the rest of them, had fallen under the spell of Ira’s charisma and presence. 

Well, no longer. Lore pushed the whetstone harder than necessary against the blade in his hands. In making a scene, he had compromised his mission. He’d made things more complicated than they needed to be. 

Lore hardly ever made mistakes. Last night he had made a big one. 

Lore left his chambers after midday, driven by boredom – there was still much to read in Rov’s library, and he’d been distracted lately. Time to make up for hours lost watching Ira spar. Mooning over the warlord like a lovestruck boy. 

Rather than sit by the window he lit a candle and found a table on the inside of the room. There was little activity below anyway. Under the rain, drills had been suspended. Ira’s soldiers were doing the same as Lore today: sharpening weapons, reading books, making ready. Ira was probably among them, charming and charismatic and adored. Lore tried hard not to think about it, and focus instead on geography.

Several hours later he had almost succeeded in putting Ira out of his mind when he heard sound of armed men moving below. Not the clatter of well-disciplined military order, but the sounds of unplanned movement. Lore perked up. Over the sound of the rain, he could hear that they were calling for Ira.

Lore sat bolt upright. Something was wrong. 

~*~

Ira stood near the castle wall under the rain, letting water run off his hood and looking carefully at the marks in the earth. 

He was trying to think. But it was difficult. His face hurt from where Lore had hit him, and he was nursing a wicked black eye. The previous night’s events had left residual anger in him he was having trouble shaking. He was snapping at everyone around him. And it didn’t help that now he didn’t know what he was looking at. It looked like someone, or a group of someones had tried to get in. Maybe even succeeded. There were muddy footprints and deep scratches on the ground. Like someone had tried to put up a ladder, or dragged something heavy…

The guards had found it first and sent for him. They had known it wasn’t good. They were right. But Ira did not know what to do, and this fact was making his dark mood even darker.

The sound of pounding feet indicated the arrival of a runner, and Ira looked up, expecting to see a messenger from Rov. 

Reality was much less welcome. Lore stopped a few feet away from the little group by the wall, breathing lightly. He was not dressed for the weather, and water ran out of his blonde hair and made his clothing cling to his body. Ira’s eyes raked over him irritably. The bastard looked none the worse for their tussle, but his expression was worried.

Beside Ira, the Cairnish guards stiffened, pulling pikes closer and letting hands stray to sword hilts. Despite Ira’s best efforts to be publicly neutral about the assassin, his people had always sensed his dislike. Ira tried not to feel smug.

“What is it?” Ira asked, not bothering to hide his annoyance. He was acutely aware of the dark circle under his left eye – a visible and humiliating reminder of last night’s skirmish. He hoped the shadows of his hood kept it from the assassin’s view.

Lore’s eyes darted to the guards, sensing their discomfort. 

“Warlord,” he greeted Ira formally, sketching the briefest of polite bows. “I heard them calling for you. I thought perhaps…”

Then Lore’s eyes looked past Ira, to the marks in the earth. Then they flicked up, and up again. Ira followed his gaze and noticed, for the first time, tiny chips in the mortar. What on earth….?

Lore’s jaw dropped, and he sucked in a breath. His eyes were wide. 

Ira recognized the expression. It was the same one he’d had last night when Ira had flipped him so easily. It was recognition and surprise. The assassin stood, silent for a minute in shock. 

Then his eyes met Ira’s. 

“That was a spider ladder,” he said, wonderingly. Then, whispered, “Rov…”

“What the hell is it?” Ira demanded, snarling. He took a step toward the assassin, but Lore had already turned and was running back toward the castle.  
Ira swore and turned to the two guards flanking him. 

“You, bring backup. You, with me.” Then turned to follow Lore back toward the castle at a run. Ira’s body was sore, but he tried not limp as they burst through the double wooden doors and took the stairs two at a time, headed toward Rov’s chambers. 

As they neared the royal quarters, the sound of fighting reached them.

Ira’s stomach dropped. 

It was happening. His worst nightmares were coming true. His run became a sprint. 

Ira reached Rov’s sitting room and took in the scene in an instant. Three dead soldiers, two of his own, one stranger. Rov with her father’s sword in her hand. Lore with his dagger making short work of a man in strange armour. A third stranger making for the window. 

Ira’s lip lifted in a snarl as he launched himself between this third man and his target. The other froze, turned to make for the door, and ran himself directly on to Hael’s broadsword as the man came into the room on Ira’s heels. 

It was over in seconds. 

Ira, panting, locked eyes with Lore, who was splattered with blood and still soaked from the rain. He was dripping on Rov’s sitting room carpet and breathing hard, his blue eyes dilated with adrenaline.

Behind Hael, backup had arrived and begun to pour into the room, stopping when it became apparent that the action was over. 

“What…” Hael started to ask, but Ira cut him off with a sharp gesture and strode to Rov.

The Queen set her sword down carefully as Ira came to her, his eyes scanning her body for injuries. She seemed fine. 

“Well,” Rov broke the momentary silence. “That was interesting.” She sounded as cool and collected as if she was making an observation about an unexpected rainstorm. Ira turned to Hael. 

“They look dead, but have them checked. Maybe one can be saved, and can answer questions.” Ira turned to the soldiers who had come through the door and pointed at them with his sword. 

“Help carry the bodies. The rest of you: out. Tell Xavier I want double the patrol on the exterior walls. If anyone sees anything strange, don’t touch it. Post a guard and have it reported directly to me. And have servants sent up here for clean up.” 

Ira’s authoritative tone broke through the shock. They scrambled to obey. Lore stepped away from his victim to let Hael’s helpers turn bodies over. Ira went to the two Cairnish guards who were on the floor near Rov. She was already kneeling by one of them, her sword on the floor by her side.

Ira knew both of the dead. Good soldiers, well liked and trusted. They had died defending their Queen. Rov was pushing hair out of the woman’s face, brushing her blue eyes closed. The queen’s lips were pressed into a thin, angry line. Ira knelt by the man, likewise brushing a palm over his eyes to close them. His body was still warm and bleeding sluggishly, but the life was gone. He had multiple stab wounds through his chest. A brutal death. He hadn’t gone down easily.

“What happened?” he asked Rov, meeting her eyes across the bodies of her guards.

“An assassination attempt, obviously. Val yelled at the last second, but there was no other warming. Then they were all in here, fighting. They were outnumbered, but then the assassin came…our assassin, I mean.” The queen gestured to Lore, who was helping Hael move bodies. “I would have been dead if he hadn’t arrived just at that moment.”

She trailed off, frowning. “You saw the rest. I’m disappointed they all managed to die. It would be interesting to hear what they had to say. It seems strange that they would attack in the middle of the day.”

Ira agreed quietly. He surveyed the room, the broken furniture, and the blood. The adrenaline was catching up to him. This had been the closest of close calls.

“You should get the blood off you.” Servants were arriving, tight lipped and pale as they took in the scene. Rov’s retainer was making a beeline for her Queen, looking determined. 

Rov nodded, and stood, looking Ira up and down. “Speak for yourself warlord. For a man who didn’t even actually manage to kill anyone, you’re filthy.”

“Yes but that’s my job,” Ira returned. “I’ll clear your other chambers and then we can let the servants have you.” Ira looked around at the faces in the room.

“Assassin, come with me. You will know what to look for in the other rooms.” 

He stood stiffly and gestured to the doorway that led into Rov’s chamber. Lore, tight-lipped, obeyed, following Ira. They moved into the rooms cautiously, surveying everything with quick efficiency. 

Ira was almost positive that they would not find anything out of place, but it wouldn’t do to be lazy. He watched Lore pace the room, checking the windows and their latches, inspecting the carpets and floor, and examining the door frames for signs of tampering. Watching him was…educational. Ira was surprised at the thoroughness of his search.

When he was finished he came back to stand beside Ira. He stared at the room pensively, a frown marring his smooth features. Ira opened his mouth to ask what he saw, but Lore answered without prompting. With the puzzle of the attack before him, he seemed to have forgotten the tension that should have rested uncomfortably between them. Instead he spoke to Ira crisply and efficiently. Like a fellow soldier. It took Ira momentarily off-guard.

“It was a night attack,” Lore said. “They took advantage of the wind and rain to sneak in before anyone suspected.” He paused, the corners of his fine lips turning down slightly. “They used a spider ladder, which is the sign of professional assassins. They must know about the crew you sent. They were rushed because they wanted to surprise you. There is a good chance we will receive Miko’s messenger tonight or tomorrow.”

“Then that means…” Ira began,

Rov interrupted. She had apparently rid herself of her retainer and entered the chamber behind them. She was wiping her hands with a cloth.

“That they are closer that we thought. Well, it seems we must go to war. I will call the council immediately. Its time to conclude our plans and initiate action.” Rov looked at the two men, muddy, bloody, and wet. 

“Well…Perhaps not immediately. I will allow you a moment to collect yourselves. Then I want both of you back within the hour. I will send messengers to the other councillors.” She waved a dismissal

The assassin and the warlord both bowed to her, and turned to go without looking at each other. There was a lot to do and suddenly no more time. 

~*~

Rov’s council of war was brief and effective. 

It was a group of people well-used to working with each other and an event they had been extremely well prepared for. Ira would march immediately at the head of Rov’s army. She would remain in the castle with a skeleton force – she claimed she was too old to campaign, which almost certainly was not true, but the retainers and equipment needed to make her safe might have compromised the speed and agility of the force. Cairn’s high walls were easier to protect, nestled as they were among the peaks of the mountains with their wide open front-country dotted with agricultural fields. 

There was only one part of the plan that Ira felt uncomfortable with. 

After the council had been dismissed, Rov had asked Ira and Lore to remain with her. Ira shifted uncomfortably once the three of them were alone, wondering what Rov had in mind and acutely aware of the tension that remained between the two of them. 

“There is one more part to my plan,” Rov explained once they were alone. “Its time for Lore to make himself useful. He will travel with the army, and when you meet Tavish’s forces he would look for an opportunity to enter the encampment and gather information.” She paused before continuing, but neither of them commented.

“Once inside, I hope there will be an opportunity for Lore to cause chaos on the inside by setting fires, distributing false information, or if the opportunity presents itself, killing someone important.” 

Lore’s eyes lit up at the suggestion, but Ira’s gut soured. Although the events of the evening had somewhat improved his opinion of Lore’s usefulness, he still did not trust the man. Just because he had been as surprised as the rest of them by the attack did not mean he was loyal to Rov. Perhaps communication with his people had been imperfect. Travelling to the front of war would be a good opportunity to report back to his masters under the guise of a spy mission.

But there was no changing Rov’s mind. If anything, the attack had only strengthened her resolve. If it had been a ploy, it had worked exactly as intended.

“Are you sure you want to trust..”

“We must use all the weapons at our disposal,” she interrupted Ira’s unfinished protest, “if we don’t we are fools. Tavish’s forces are powerful. We cannot afford to be conservative.”

She eyed them both carefully. “There is a second part to this. And you’re not going to like it.”

She took a breath. “Lore will travel as your retainer.” It had the ring of an order. 

“That way we need tell a minimum number of people about his presence and mission, and no one will miss him when he disappears.” 

Rov knew that Ira habitually traveled without retainer, preferring to care for his own affairs like the rest of his officers and soldiers. But no one would question his decision to bring one on this mission, with all its complications. Especially not if they recognised Lore. Rov’s soldiers were not stupid – they would understand the significance or Lore’s presence and act as if it was the most natural arrangement in the world. 

For a moment Ira silently cursed their loyalty and obedience for not giving him an excuse to reject Rov’s plan.

“You will need time to work out a system of signals,” she continued. “This arrangement will give you that time.” 

Ira looked across the table at the assassin. Lore was chewing thoughtfully on one lip, his expression giving nothing away. Ira sighed. He could see no way out of it. 

“As you wish, Rov. You’re right, I don’t like it. But the arrangement will allow me to keep an eye on him.”

With just the three of them in the room there was no need to mince words about Ira’s distrust, but Lore had the good grace to look mildly offended by the comment. 

Rov tsked. “You are a disobedient and distrustful man, Ira. Its why I keep you around. But in this case I hope you will not let your personal feelings about my agent colour your actions in the field.” Her eyes bored into him, and Lore, too, watched him with a hard stare. 

Under the force of those twin gazes Ira lowered his eyes. “I am your servant, Rov” he told her quietly, and was surprised when she reached over to him to squeeze his shoulder lightly.

“You are more than that, Ira,” she said gently. “You are also my friend. And I would not intentionally make your life more difficult or dangerous if it could be avoided.”  
Ira lifted his eyes to her’s again, surprised.

There seemed to be a double meaning there, but he could not be completely certain. Perhaps this move was intentional – a way to keep the assassin close, as Ira had so openly suggested. 

But there was no way to ask with Lore sitting across from them, regarding them silently. And even if he’d had her alone, Ira doubted she would ever confess to suspicion or regret. Rov was not a woman who would ever admit to thinking twice about anything.

He accepted his fate. He would play nice, for now. And maybe he could figure out a way to make the assassin useful.


	3. Chapter 3

Miko’s messenger arrived early the next morning, exhausted and muddy. He had traveled through the night, and had still come too late.

Ira took him to Rov immediately when he arrived. He collapsed onto the floor before her, exhausted and distressed. Ira picked him up.

“Tell her what you told me,” Ira orderd.

“Miko found Tavish’s army at the base of the pass,” the man reported, his voice thick with weariness. “They are waiting for winter to freeze the water and mud before pushing through. But they intend to be here at Cairn’s walls once winter sets in.”

“And behind them? To the border?” Rov sounded uncharacteristically surprised.

“They left a path of destruction behind them to Cairn’s border. The army is several thousand strong, and they’ve burned everything they couldn’t take with them. The villagers are hiding in the mountains.”

“What is Miko’s plan?”

“When I left Miko planned to stay out of sight, and perhaps run some harassing attacks if she saw the opportunity. But Tavish was digging in, and there was little she could do except set fires and kill scouts.” The messenger dragged his eyes to Ira’s face.

“They need backup. Miko asked you to come, warlord. Will you go to them?”

~*~

Mobilization took less than a full day. Although he might have been used to it by now, Lore still found himself impressed with Ira’s organizational efficiency. Horses and wagons were packed with tents and food stores and weapons. Soldiers and officers made themselves ready, packing personal bags and food. In truth, the house of Cairn had been prepared for this moment for months, and under Ira’s tight discipline it all came together like clockwork.

The night after the attack on Rov, the entire army was ready to march. In the morning, as the dawn lit the sky, they departed. Lore had been provided with a horse – One of Ira’s own. He thought he should probably feel honoured. He rode near the front of the army, just behind Ira and his officers. The horses were fresh, excited to be outside of the castle walls in the crisp early-winter air. They danced and snorted and shied at the fluttering flags.

As the army trickled from Cairn’s gates, Lore couldn’t help watching Ira. He was an impressive sight. Huge on his big black horse, flashing with silver and coloured silk, the flag of his office snapping neatly from the back of his saddle. All eyes were naturally drawn to him. Consulting with his officers at the head of the column, the steam from his horse rising around him, he looked like a god.

Lore understood completely the loyalty he inspired in Rov and the rest of them. It was impossible not to worship him.

They wound their way down from Cairn, through the brown fields and farmhouses that surrounded the city. People came out to watch and wave flags and shout greetings to their friends and relatives. It felt festive.

Soon they were below the fields and into the forest at the foot of the mountains, winding their slow way into the first of the passes that would take them down into the foothills and eventually to Tavish. Lore knew the route well. It was the way he had come only a few months before.

They stopped before dusk, the army fanning naturally out into the trees to set up the borders of their camp, erect the tents, feed horses, and set guards.

Lore avoided Ira, but as dark fell and the watchfires lept high, he realized he would have to face the other man. The longer he put it off, the more difficult it would be. And it could not be put off forever, or his mission would fail.

Ira’s officer’s tent was not difficult to find. He was at the centre of the camp, and it was larger than any of the other structures. There were no guards outside, but soldiers from Ira’s personal unit eyed him as he approached, noting his presence. Lore stopped uncertainly in front of the door before pulling it aside and entering.

It was a large four-walled structure with a big open floor and room for meeting with the officer core if needed. The roof was high enough for a man to stand with room above his head. There were thick rugs on the floor and a wide sleeping platform near the back, but otherwise the structure was as spartan and military as Ira himself.

Ira was there alone, bent over a parchment map with a look of concentration on his face. There was a small fire in the centre, and smoke rose through the centre pole at the top of the tent. Lanterns were set around the room, sending warm light over the warlord and his papers.

Lore cleared his throat and watched the warlord twitch almost imperceptibly. Lore had inadvertently surprised him.

The line of Ira’s jaw set into a hard line as soon as he saw who had interrupted his study, and Lore fought the urge to roll his eyes. The warlord’s suspicion was getting tiresome.

“Do you have time to see me, warlord?” Lore asked as politely as he could, “we need to review signs.”

Ira said nothing at first. He unfolded himself from his seat like a great cat. At his full height his head almost brushed the ceiling of the tent. He had removed his armour and was dressed in loose silk clothing that shimmered slightly in the light from the tent’s lanterns. A wool blanket covered his shoulders for warmth.

He looked disarmingly comfortable, and Lore felt his face heat at the idea that he had invaded such an intimate space without somehow announcing himself. His eyes dropped to the floor - he intimidated by the man’s presence and silence despite years of training that should have inoculated him against the effect.

Ira remained silent and stony, but gestured with one hand to the sitting cushions and furs scattered around the base of the sleeping platform. A gesture of invitation.

The situation felt strangely intimate for two people who had nearly killed each other two nights ago. Lore struggled to remind himself of the cultural difference between the north and the south. This was the way of these mountain folk. Their relationships were, by necessity, without pomp or ceremony. They were as quick to anger as they were to generosity. Furthermore, for Ira it was the most natural thing in the world that his soldiers would have access to his sleeping chambers. He kept nothing from them, and they nothing from him. So if Lore felt he had violated some sort of boundary it was likely his own worldview at work, coming from a place where a grudge like his and Ira’s might have made their interactions awkward for years.

Lore shook his southern sensibilities and joined Ira on the floor.

“Tell me what I must know,” Ira said, once they were both seated, finally breaking the silence between them. His voice was cool and neutral, but not unfriendly. He was rolling the scroll he’d been looking at. Lore saw that it was a map of their route, which would take them through the mountains in the morning.

Instead of answering directly, like a Northerner might, Lore institutionally deflected.

“Will the way be difficult tomorrow?” he asked lightly, settling himself. Given their history, he was uncomfortable without some sort of polite transition. He preferred to come to his topic from a roundabout way. And besides, he was curious about the map.

To his surprise, Ira did not object to the deflection but shrugged and looked thoughtful.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “The scouts say that the nights have been cold up here, so the ground is firm. And there has been a little snow, but not so much that it will bog down the wagons. If all of this is correct, we are fortunate and tomorrow will be an easy journey.”

Lore absorbed this.

“The mountain people are experts in winter travel,” he observed neutrally. The corner of Ira’s lip twitched in what might have been the beginnings of a smile.

“We must be,” the warlord responded, “or we would never go anywhere.” But his patience for southern small talk had ended. “Now tell me what you came to tell me, and then we must sleep. We will move out before dawn tomorrow.”

The night was growing colder, and Lore found himself grateful for the warmth of the furs. He decided to be agreeable.

“Not tell, warlord. We must decide together. Once we arrive at the battlefield, I will wait for an opportunity to enter the enemy camp. Once I am inside, there must be a way for me to communicate with you, and you me, so that we can pass information. Also, we must decide on a signal for when I come back out. I will be coming from the enemy lines, and it will be very easy for you to mistake me for one of them.”

Lore paused to assess Ira’s reaction, but the warlord gave no clue as to what he was thinking. Lore continued, “and if there’s time I will teach you hand signals, so that we can communicate without words.”

“Under what circumstances would this last be used?” Ira asked.

Lore winced slightly. There was no way to put this that wasn’t awkward.

“In case you are captured, warlord, or suffer a defeat, and we must make a plan under the eyes of the enemy. Also, in my country, we use this if there is information you wish to pass without the knowledge of your soldiers. But I understand from my time here that such measures are rarely necessary.”

Ira was nodding, which was a small relief. Warlords, in Lore’s experience, rarely reacted well to the possibility of defeat. But Ira, for all his ridiculous pride, was a thorough commander. And a thorough commander considered all possibilities, even the possibility of defeat. He did not take it as a slight o his ability, but as a matter of professional interest.

“I think you will find handsign skills useful,” Lore continued. “But the more basic signalling methods are more important. We should begin there.”

Ira nodded, looking thoughtful. “Once we reach the battlefield, we will assess the situation and make a plan,” he said. “It would be helpful to create a disturbance inside the camp while we attack from the outside.”

Lore lowered his eyes. “This is the normal function of my occupation,” he agreed. “but whatever you decide, it is unlikely to go exactly as we plan. That is why we need this system.”

“What are the options?” Ira asked. He sounded genuinely curious.

“There are many,” Lore said vaguely, “but Tavish is likely to be familiar with a few of them already. So we should avoid those. I think lanterns will be the easiest and most subtle way.”

Ira said nothing, so Lore continued. He felt uncharacteristically self-conscious under the warlord’s hard gaze. Vulnerable. As if he must justify his choices at every turn.

He supposed it was natural. He was sat before a person who could have him killed as easily as taking his next breath. Outside of Rov’s castle, there was little to protect Lore except for the warlord’s sense of duty and obedience to his queen. And these sentiments could easily fade with distance. Out here, Ira ruled. Even if the other members of the officer core trusted Rov’s choice to use him, they trusted Ira more. They would never question Ira’s decision if he ordered Lore killed or imprisoned.

There was also, he thought, the matter of two very different moral compasses at work. Ira was the embodiment of honour and virtue. Lore was acutely aware of what the man thought of assassin tactics. Even if Lore knew that his disgust was motivated by a lack of understanding, it was not easy to shake the other man’s judgement. This was part of Ira’s power. His clarity of vision, his unshakable sense of rightness, were so strong and deeply rooted that his sheer conviction brought others effortlessly into his orbit. Even Lore, who had a somewhat more complicated view of honour and morality, was not immune to this effect.

“Its simple,” Lore explained in answer to Ira’s question. “there is a lantern, shielded on three sides so the light does not spread. It has a mirror at the back to concentrate the light. By covering and uncovering the open side in set patterns, I can convey meaning.”

Ira nodded.

“Villagers use a similar system to communicate across the mountain valleys,” he observed. “it requires that they flash the light from a high place.”

“Exactly.” Lore couldn’t help sounding pleased. “I would stand atop a wall or tent. Depending on the location of the enemy’s night watch, you may or may not be able to reply. There are signals I can give to indicate this.”

Ira turned to the small chest where he had stowed the map and after a little shuffling pulled out a piece of parchment and charcoal.

“Show me.” Ira said simply, holding the materials out to the assassin. “Write as many as you like. I will memorize them. Tomorrow, you will test me with a real lantern. If I can understand the system easily, you will give me more to memorize.”

Lore had expected more resistance. Or, at the very least, to have to provide structure for the warlord. But Ira being Ira was more than an astute student. Learning the signals had been Rov’s direct instruction to him, and he clearly intended to take control over the process.

Lore took the parchment and charcoal from Ira obediently, flattened the paper on the floor, and began to scratch patterns.

“This means the lantern is closed,” he said, drawing a solid black dot, “and this is open.” The one next to it was an empty circle. “If there is a line through the circle, it is held open for longer. Usually about two full seconds. The same for the closed lantern.”

Ira had leaned close to Lore so that he could see the designs as the assassin drew. Lore breathed the smell of woodsmoke and leather and tried not to think about the last time they had been so close – when Ira had pushed him against the courtyard wall and threatened to kill him.

Lore drew a series of dots in quick succession.

“This means not to reply, because the enemy will see the light. This means safe to reply. They are the first messages I will send.”

Ira was nodding, so Lore continued. He gave Ira “night attack coming imminently,” “there is a weakness or a strength in the north/west/east/south,” the times of day, and a series of around twenty other fundamental communications. Ira absorbed it all wordlessly.

When Lore was done, Ira sat back and took the paper. Lore watched his eyes scan the page. There was a lot to memorize. Lore had given him as much as a student was given on their first day of signal practice. Ira, unlike a young assassin student, was busy running an army. Lore wondered if he would be able to do it.

After a brief silence, Ira said,

“I will study this, and we will meet again tomorrow at the same time. Now you should sleep. There is a bed for you there.”

Ira indicated a corner of the tent. Lore was surprised at the abruptness of the dismissal and its content. Although Rov had ordered him act as Ira’s retainer, he had not expected to sleep in the warlord’s tent like a real retainer would. He had assumed he’d be in a nearby tent with the rest of Ira’s contingent.

He had been mistaken. And Ira, apparently, had meant what he said about keeping an eye on him. Lore stood and saluted the warlord in the Cairnish style. Ira returned the gesture – out of instinct rather than genuine politeness, Lore suspected.

“I will bring my packs.” Ira nodded. The big man was again unfolding himself from the furs, putting away his papers.

Lore went out of the tent – the air was much colder than it had been when he’d entered, and he shivered. He had left his bags with the packs and saddles, and now he went to get them, his mind buzzing the entire time. The entire interaction had been much less hostile than Lore had expected. And the offer of a bed…what did it mean? Was it a peace offering, or a declaration of mistrust? Would it complicate his mission?

When he returned to the tent, the interior was dark. Ira had snuffed the candles and put out the fire. A few embers were all that was left. Lore closed the flap behind him and waited for his eyes to adjust to the low light. Ira was an indistinct pile of furs, but in the gloom Lore saw the glint of open eyes and knew that the warlord was awake and watching him. The realization sent a cold shock through him.

When he could see well enough not to trip over anything, Lore stowed his packs and pulled off his outer garments under Ira’s gaze, fighting off self-consciousness. If he could ignore the discomfort of being watched like a hawk, the inside of the tent was blissfully warm compared to the frosty air outside. Someone, not Ira, Lore guessed, had thoughtfully provided a warm woolen blanket for the retainer’s cot.

As Lore curled up, he heard Ira sigh irritably from the other side of the room.

“Try not to kill me in my sleep,” the warlord muttered as he rolled over, putting his back to the assassin. Lore said nothing in reply, but his head was a whirl of thoughts. The man was an enigma.

It was his last thought before he fell asleep.

~*~

The next night, on the other side of the pass, Lore came to Ira’s tent a second time.

The temperature was even colder now that they were higher up in the mountains. But inside the tent the fire was lit, the beds laid out, the air pleasant, and Ira waiting.

Lore paused at the entrance to take it in. The scene was warm and inviting. Ira, unsurprised by Lore’s arrival this time, made his inviting gesture. Lore worked his way across the room to the fire and seated himself across from the warlord without saying anything. He’d brought a collapsible lantern with a mirror, which he lit with a branch from the embers between them.

“Are you ready?”

Ira nodded, dark eyes glinting, expression calm and impassive.

Lore shrugged and went through the signals one at a time. Ira remembered all of them. He didn’t even have to stop and think about it. Lore was impressed.

Afterwards, Ira produced a new parchment and Lore write another series of signals, passing them to the assassin wordlessly.

Lore gave Ira half again what he’d given him the first time. Ira accepted the list, studied it briefly, then folded it carefully and tucked away. He did not remark on the additional work, and seemed as confident about his ability to memorize this new set as he had last night. Lore shrugged to himself and stood.

The two of them worked together wordlessly to snuff the fire, secure the door, and blow out the candles. Lore thought it was almost starting to feel natural. As they retreated to their beds, Ira did not bother watching him, but rolled over and fell asleep immediately. As if once he had decided to trust Lore, that was it. There would be no wondering or second guessing. Lore laid awake longer, thinking, wondering, and planning.

After four days, Lore began teaching him the hand signs.

Ira had memorized several hundred different signals with the lantern, more than Lore could imagine needing. Besides, he secretly found Ira’s flawless ability to memorize the symbols annoying and he felt the need to watch the man trip up on something.

The warlord had more difficulty with hand sign, which moved faster and required dexterity Ira’s fingers were unused to. Unlike the lantern, which felt like a code, the hand signs were like learning another complete language with all its nuance and subtleties. The hands took a shape for each part of speech, and could be fully expressive. But they were also dangerously subtle. They were meant to look natural, so that an observer could not tell there was a conversation going on. This also meant that Ira often missed modifiers and symbols that obscured Lore’s meaning.

They sat across from each other, near to the fire and wrapped in silk and furs. Lore had showed Ira “this” and “truth,” and now was trying to string the words into a sentence _this is the truth._

But Ira was struggling. Lore slowly signed the sentence, and Ira tried to focus. The assassin’s hands moved smoothly and effortlessly through the air. When he had finished, he looked pointedly at Ira. Ira took a breath, frowning in concentration, and began _that…is…is…_

Lore laughed and, without thinking about it, reached across the short distance between them to take Ira’s hands in his own.

For a moment, both of them froze. Lore had not thought about the movement before he did it. It was something he would have done with a student without thinking.

But the moment he had the warlord’s hands in his own he was acutely aware of the boundary he had crossed, and of the unresolved dislike between them.

Unable to take the moment back, Lore barreled ahead. After a brief pause, he gently moved Ira’s hands into correct position. He noticed absently that the man’s fingers were warm and callused and that his hands were much bigger and stronger than Lore’s delicate ones. His fingers made _the…truth._

Lore released Ira, and the warlord, eyeing Lore with annoyance, tried again on his own. The second attempt was rough, but complete.

“Good,” said Lore softly. His eyes were on Ira’s hands, completely enthralled. “now try with the negative, ‘not.’”

He showed Ira the way to sign ‘not.’ Ira copied him, then signed _this…is…not…the truth._

“There. See, not hopeless after all.” Lore settled himself more deeply into the furs and allowed a smug smile to cross his face.

“Lets do more.”

Lore showed him “help,” “the one on the left,” “the one on the right,” “armed,” “unarmed,” and the times of day. Then they ran through them all together.

When they were finished Lore said, “soon we can have conversations this way.” He was delighted with Ira’s progress, and felt more comfortable with his role as a teacher now that Ira had showed he was not superhumanly gifted as a student.

Ira was rubbing his temples, looking frustrated.

“After that you will find the learning comes much faster,” the assassin added, taking sudden pity on his victim.

“I hope so,” Ira grumbled, and Lore allowed himself another smile.

“Its unnatural to be good at all things,” he chided in the tone of a schoolteacher. Ira grunted in response.

“Was it difficult for you, when you learned?”

Lore was momentarily taken aback by the question. It was the first time the warlord had expressed any interest in him, or his life. The first time he had expressed anything except deep suspicion. He took a moment to formulate a response.

“It came quickly, yes,” he said finally, “but I was very young. The young are quick to pick up these kinds of things. Its like a game.”

“You learned at the assassin’s house.” It was not a question, but Lore nodded.

“It was one of my earliest lessons. For months we were allowed only to speak with our hands, or be punished.”

Ira had no response, and for a few minutes they sat in silence, listening to the small fire pop.

Finally, Ira gave him a sideways glance, and Lore thought he could detect the tiniest teasing smile.

“Well, if its unnatural to be good at all things, what does that say about you, assassin? Are there things you’re not good at?” he asked.

Lore didn’t know what to say. He had not been teased or complimented by anyone for a long time. The last place he’d expected it was from the warlord.

“I’m terrible at poetry,” Lore said lightly, “we were supposed to memorize poems about war and history at the house, but I never could. It bored me to tears.”

Ira gave a little huff of laughter, looking into the fire.

“And I’m bad at hand to hand combat in close quarters. You know that.”

Lore meant it lightly, but as soon as he said it he knew it had been a mistake. All the humour went out of Ira’s face as he was reminded of the night of their fight. The warlord’s eyes rose to Lore’s face, and they were dark and unreadable.

Lore looked back placidly. Well, too bad for Ira. One of them would have to mention it eventually.

Eventually, Ira shrugged.

“Maybe not. You’ve put on weight since we’ve been on the road,” the hint of a smile came back into the warlord’s voice.

“In fact I think you are the only man in all of Cairn to gain weight on the war rations.”

Lore could say nothing. He had no response. The idea that Ira had been watching him so closely as to notice his weight was deeply unsettling.

“But you’re right,” Ira continued with a flip of his hand, “you’re not good. You have no skill in close hand to hand, and you rely on your speed.” He paused,

“We could work on it.” Ira’s gaze dropped to the floor, uncharacteristically uncertain. “If you want…”

Lore looked down at his own hands, finding himself in unexpected territory. What was happening? Was this a peace offering? If so, he could not afford to turn it down.

“Are you offering to spar with me? Again? After I gave you that black eye?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice, and he watched as Ira’s fingers went self-consciously to his cheek, where the bruise Lore had given him had faded.

“Yes,” continued Lore, before the warlord could become defensive and retract his offer, “I will spar with you. Perhaps I can teach you a thing or two myself.” It was an opportunity to make a quip about dishonourable tactics, but Ira didn’t take it.

“Good. Tomorrow, once we’ve camped and before the light is gone. Meet where they set up the practice field.”

“deal.”

And like that the tension between them vanished, the harsh words exchanged in the dark courtyard of Rov’s castle explained and forgiven. In its place, something new had emerged. A relationship based on the beginnings of mutual respect. Lore marveled at the efficiency of Cairnish diplomacy.

~*~

On the fifth night of the campaign, they added sparring to lantern codes and hand signs.

Ira brought a soldier named Yael the first night to demonstrate the tactics his had in mind. Ira and Yael fought first. She had Ira pinned unceremoniously in the dirt with a foot between his shoulder blades in less than five minutes and, to Lore’s delight, she left him there, struggling, while she explained how she had done it.

Lore, who had been trained in hand-hand combat since he was a child, found himself undeniably impressed. While he knew that he could easily take down the bigger man with sufficient space and tactics, Yael had done so seemingly on the warlord’s own terms. When she let Ira stand up he glared and swiped at her good naturedly, but she laughed and jumped out of his reach like a cat.

Lore found Yael easy to talk to and quick to good humour. She showed him a number of interesting tactics he had never seen before, demonstrating them without apparent self-consciousness on her warlord and supreme commander. Ira took it all without complaint.

What Lore had not anticipated was the audience.

The sessions had an unexpected side benefit. Afterwards, on the road between camps, Yael sometimes rode with him, telling stories about life in the deep mountains north of Cairn. Others joined them on and off, curious about Ira’s “retainer.” Yael was well-liked by everyone, and through her Lore began to get to know people. He was making friends.

~*~

For another six days they wound their way toward the edge of the mountains, the air getting colder and colder as winter approached.

Around noon on the twelfth day of their march, the army halted in the shade below a barren ridge. Low mountains, still without snow except at the very top, sloped away from them on either side. The scouts who rode ahead of the army had found something.

Lore accompanied Ira and four of his officers as they rode to the top of the ridge to see what the scouts had spotted. He stayed a little behind the core group, fighting off a feeling of unease. He had known, of course, that each day brought them closer to Tavish. But he had been able to put the implications from his mind between the long days on horseback and the evenings spent with Ira. But the journey could not last forever. Soon Lore would have to go back to work.

At the top of the rise, Lore sucked in his breath. There below them and to the east, Tavish’s army was spread out like a cloak over the land. There were thousands of them. Tents. Horses. Staging areas. They were digging in, and Lore could see people, tiny as ants, crawling over fresh barricades of wood and dirt.

Lore tasted bile at the back of his throat as he spotted familiar colours, Tavish and all his officers, flying over large tends near the centre of the scene. It was finally happening. And despite all his training, Lore felt anxiety grip him.

Lore steered his horse a little way away from Ira and his soldiers, partly to give the little group space and partly to give himself a moment to collect his emotions. He had not expected this returning to rekindle his old fears so powerfully. Lore wrapped his fingers in his horse’s mane and pressed his knuckles against her neck, drawing comfort from the heat.

The mare’s body, tired from twelve days of travel, was relaxed and calm and grateful for the rest. As they stood together, she snuffled at a low, bare bush, looking for food. Lore tried to draw her calm up into himself. A horse, even in the last second before the battle, doesn’t care about what the future brings, he thought. She is fully possessed of the moment.

There was probably a military poem with that wisdom in it. One he had failed to memorize. For a second, the face of his old teacher from the assassin’s house flashed in his mind, frowning down on him in disapproval. The memory brought a smile to Lore’s face and filled his body with a little warmth.

Presently, Lore noticed that Ira was riding toward him along the top of the ridge, his big black horse picking its way through the rocks. The rest of the soldiers stayed where they were, talking and gesturing to the camp below.

But Ira had eyes only for Lore. As they locked gazes, Lore felt himself evaluated, the dark stare piercing his body, looking for something more. Motive. Trustworthiness. Truth. There was a tension to the warlord’s gaze that Lore had not experienced since the first night in Ira’s tent. He was not happy to see it return.

Ira brought his horse to within a few feet of Lore and stopped, looking down at the assassin from the height of the bigger animal and higher terrain.

Lore was again struck by his resemblance to some god of war. The wind blew the black mane of his horse and tousled Ira’s black hair. A weak winter sun glinted from his armour and the helmet he’d tucked under his arm.

Lore squinted up at him feeling small and mortal.

“We have arrived,” the warlord observed finally, but his eyes remained locked on Lore rather than the scene below, and his hands conveyed a different message.

_Can I trust you?_

Lore felt the knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach, and his fingers tightened in his mare’s mane. He looked deep into the warlord’s eyes. He tried to be barefaced, open, concealing nothing.

“Yes.” He said simply, and with as much conviction as he could express. He hoped it was enough. He didn’t move his hands.

Ira stared him down impassively, the dark eyes searching. Lore stared back, cool and placid as deep water. Under that veneer, though, his heart was beating hard and fast.

Finally, without a word, Ira turned his horse back to his officers. They rejoined the others, and together they picked their way back down the ridge to relay orders and begin preparation for war.


	4. Chapter 4

There was a hot spring to the west of the ridge above a flat plain, ideal for staging an army. Tavish’s scouts had missed it.

This was extremely lucky because it was almost certainly a superior spot. Most of the camp could be hidden among the tall pine that grew around the spring, but there were places that scouts could be located and look across the valley at Tavish’s camp to detect movement or mobilization.

The Cairnish had known about it because it was a common stopping point on the road, especially in the winter. The valley had been occupied and partially cleared, so the hot spring had been dammed and cared for. Those caretakers had fled before the advancing armies, and there was no sign of them now.

Instead, they found Miko. When Ira caught sight of his general he gave a cry and rushed down ahead of his troops. Swinging down from his black horse he enveloped the woman in a bear hug, which Miko returned, laughing.

Ira took Miko’s face in his hands roughly. “I thought we might find you dead or captured.”

“Who me? With this lot?” Miko indicated the remains of her troop. There were a few faces missing and a few bandages, but most seemed whole and healthy.

“Not likely. We’ve been staying out of the way, for the most part. Harassing them when we can. Taking out scouting groups. That sort of thing. Your messengers reached us four days ago, so we knew backup was coming and didn’t take any unnecessary risks.”

Miko looked at the horses and riders streaming into the camp around him with a grin. “Its good to see you lot. And perfect timing. If you’d been any longer they might have made it further into the mountains, and fighting in the steeper valleys would have been hell.”

“We came as fast as we could,” Ira said, “and we’ve had an easy journey. We’ve been lucky.”

Miko grinned and thumped her commander on the back.

“Come on, I’ll show you what we’ve set up. And you can put some people to work right away on fortifications.”

Ira released Miko and let her lead him through the camp, giving orders as he went. The ground was mercifully frozen, so mud was minimal. Tents and fires had already begun to spring up around them, and there were large crews with shovels making walls around the perimeters of the camp. The hot spring was a large one, with big generous pools. Although there were thousands of similar springs throughout the mountains, not all of them were so warm or voluminous. Ira looked forward to a warm soak once the matters of the encampment were dealt with.

“When do you think they’ll attack?” Hael had caught up with Ira and Miko at the spring, his own contingent already settled.

“There’s no way they will have missed our approach. So I think at dawn, if they’re well organized. Later in the day if not.”

Hael nodded. “The troops are ready. Seeing Tavish’s camp as we came in got some blood up. It will be good to see a little action.”

Ira knew that some of the soldiers hailed from the villages below, travelled this valley often, and must be wondering about the fate of relatives. He was grateful for the discipline and organization of Rov’s army. They would sleep early and lightly, with swords and armour near at hand. The scouts and watchers would be on high alert. There would be passwords and counterpasswords for anyone entering or leaving camp. Seasoned warriors who had fought alongside Ira’s mother and father, who had fought with Ira alongside Ira over the years of campaigns and defenses against Rov’s interloping neighbours, would keep the new recruits in line.. In the morning they would fight as brothers and sisters, out of the love and protectiveness they felt for Rov and their mountain kingdom.

Disciplined and well-organized as they were, there were still a million details to work out and Ira found himself occupied well past the hour when he usually joined Lore for sparring, and even past the time they normally met for codes and signs.

When he finally entered his tent well after dark he found the little fire burning, and the assassin seated next to it, a long slightly curving sword across his black-clad legs, whetstone in hand. He had apparently found other ways to amuse himself. He looked up when Ira entered and graced the warlord with one of his secretive smiles, setting aside whetstone and flipping the sword expertly into a curved black sheath. He looked beautiful and deadly, and Ira felt the smallest stirring of affection. He had grown to like the assassin despite himself, over these past days on the road. He had enjoyed the challenge of their sessions in sign, and was genuinely glad to see Lore. It was an unexpected feeling.

“Have you eaten?” Lore’s question took Ira off guard. He realized he hadn’t.

"No matter, I brought you some.” The assassin indicated a steaming bowl sitting close enough to the fire to stay warm. Ira, who had frozen momentarily in the entrance, lowered the tent flap and entered, unbuckling his weapons and pulling off his cloak and boots.

“Thank-you,” he managed.

“Not at all. Yael said she saw you with the generals and suggested you had probably forgotten to eat.” Another smile punctuated this revelation. “Then she tripped me and held me down and made me beg for mercy.”

“A good lesson, then.”

“Yes, I’m getting better. I managed to fend her off for about four seconds today, rather than two.”

“No small accomplishment.” Ira had rid himself of his outer layers and joined Lore by the fire, picking up the steaming bowl. It was a thick stew, and it smelled delicious. It was only after the first bite that he considered the possibility that Lore had poisoned it, but he did some calculation and decided the risk was relatively remote. If Lore wanted to kill him tonight be could do it with that wicked looking sword before Ira had even blinked.

Lore stretched, showing off a considerable swath of golden-olive skin and muscular torso under loose black silk. Ira tried not to stare.

“You think they’ll attack in the morning, then?” Lore asked casually, stifling a yawn. He might as well have been asking about what was on the breakfast menu.

Ira nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, but it will depend on how organized they are. You would no more about those circumstances than I do.”

There was a little coldness in Lore’s voice when he replied. “I left a long time ago, warlord. Its likely things have changed.”

Ira was silent, waiting. Eventually Lore continued, more softly. “When I was in their camp it was my experience that they had difficulties with discipline. Too many cooks in the kitchen. Too many generals wanting power.”

“Either way we will be ready,” Ira said mildly. He finished his stew and rinsed the bowl with water from his canteen. “Thank you for bringing food.”

Lore shrugged. “Thank Yael. I would have let you starve. Now what do you think…would you rather sleep immediately or go through signs?”

Ira sighed, then signed _sleep, I beg you_.

This won another sly smile from his companion, who stood, shedding blankets.

“Very well,” he said aloud. Then signed _lazy student_.

Ira huffed a surprised laugh. It felt natural to banter with the assassin. He was quick and open. Yet he knew it was a rapport built on a foundation as fragile as glass. Ira feared to push too hard, lest he break it.

He stood and begin putting out candles while Lore banked the fire. Then Ira pulled off his own leathers, shivering a little when his bare flesh met the cool air. When he turned around he found Lore watching him, calm and expressionless as always. In the darkness of the tent his eyes were glittering black pools.

“wake me when the fun starts,” he said softly into the dark. Ira nodded in response.

~*~

Lore’s prediction, however long out of date, proved accurate. The sun had risen by the time Tavish’s troops began pouring out from behind their barricades. Rov’s army had been ready since the first birds chirped in the darkness before dawn, so that when the attack finally came they poured out of the trees like water down the mountainside, joyous and turbulent and fierce.

Ira rode at the centre and in the front (which Lore thought foolish, but knew better than to say anything about it). And the effect was, Lore was forced to admit, spectacular. Although outnumbered but at least half, Rov’s army functioned like clockwork. The flanks swept down to either side of the attacking force. The mounted units flowed up and over Tavish’s front lines like a malevolent storm. Foot soldiers mopped up the survivors. Only the discrepancy in size meant that the armies were evenly matched. But by midday, Ira had forced Tavish into a disorganized retreat. Rather than smash themselves on the invading army’s defenses, Ira ordered his own retreat, infinitely better coordinated than Tavish’s, and the Cairnish army returned to their encampment, battered but victorious.

~*~

Lore joined Ira and his generals in Ira’s tent that evening, for a council of war. The men and women arranged themselves around a long collapsible table covered with Ira’s maps. Lore sat fascinated near the entrance, as was his post.

As he listened, he was struck once again at how these northern generals were so utterly unpolitical. In his first few weeks, Lore had tried hard to get a grasp on who was vying for power, who was disliked, and who pulled strings – but he had been forced to give up. The harshness of life in Cairn seemed to produce a complete lack of duplicity. They trusted each other and worked for each others’ benefit. From the enemy’s point of view, it must be deeply annoying.

“We did well today, but we cannot count on the same circumstances tomorrow,” Hael said. “They will learn from their mistakes. They took us for easy prey, but having learned we are not to be easily put down, they will clean up their attacks.”

Ira was nodding. “In the past, there have been generals in Tavish’s force who have taken advantage of the kind of situation we had today to seize control of the army,” he said, distaste in his voice, “I think its likely this will happen again.”

“There were seven flags on the field today,” Lore added from his place outside the circle. “Tavish, Merk, Kell, Fley, Rosen, Fell, Brail. That’s two less than there were six months ago. There have been some political changes.”

“Which do you think it most likely to seize control under Tavish?” Ira asked, turning dark eyes on the assassin.

Lore, uncomfortable under the warlord’s focussed attention, shrugged.

“There’s no way to know. Brail and Kell both have large numbers of followers and a particular taste for blood. But the others should not be discounted.”

Ira appeared to be taking a break from being hostile toward him, and Lore still did not know how to take it. His feelings about the Cairnish warlord were complicated enough as it was. Their almost-friendly evening sessions were both pleasant and deeply confusing. Without Ira’s instinctual dislike directed at him, Lore felt off balance. He was unsure of his standing. The day they had left Cairn, he had half suspected that, once on the road, Ira would disregard Rov’s orders and sideline him from these sorts of conversations. The opposite seemed to be true. He was true to the intentions of Rov, even if they went against his instinct. Lore wasn’t sure if he was impressed with the man’s impeccable sense of duty or annoyed by it.

“It will be impossible for us to root them out, like they are,” said Miko, sounding frustrated and breaking through Lore’s thoughts. “There’s just too many of them and there’s no way to lay siege without losing too many soldiers.”

Ira shook his head, his eyes mercifully pulling away from Lore. “We must be strategic. Strike when we can be sure of victory. Kill as many as we can, until we have weakened them sufficiently. The mountains are on our side. Winter will be difficult here. More difficult to Tavish’s men, who are used to the warmth of the plains.” Lore detected a tiny bit of smugness.

“We will be here some time, then,” Hael observed thoughtfully. “I wonder if it would be possible to have allies join us from the mountains in the west. Rov’s brothers dislike conflict, but they will rally to her flag if they must. And they will take offense to Tavish’s brashness. After all, no one expected them to come so deeply into Cairn so fast, not even Rov.”

Ira nodded. “We will send messengers. First to Rov, then to her brothers in the west. Tavish won’t expect that, and it might provide a necessary boost to morale if we get dug in here for a long time.”

“In the meantime, we can cause some havoc,” said Miko, who always wanted to cause havoc. Lore caught the fond look Ira cast at his youngest general. There was a long pause.

Here, Lore thought, was the biggest political scandal in Cairnish affairs. The minor disagreement, tempered by strong mutual affection, between Ira and his most ambitious young general. And yet the disagreement had produced virtually nothing in terms of interesting politics. Cairn!

“Well-considered havoc.” Ira agreed, eyeing his general. “Measured, logical, well-timed havoc which will preserve our forces while inflicting as much damage as possible on the enemy.”

“Of course,” said Miko, trying and failing to look demure. “When can we start?”

“When opportunity and fortune allows,” said one of Ira’s older generals, a grey-haired woman named Fae, in her most matronly voice. She was coming to Ira’s defense, backing him up. Miko lowered her eyes respectfully.

“For now we keep a close eye on all movements. We’ll place scouts up on the ridges where we can watch activity inside the camp, and wait until we get a good opportunity to strike again,” Ira said.

There were sounds of agreement around the table.

“You’ve done well today,” Ira concluded. “Now you should return to your soldiers and see that everyone is cared for, bandaged, and well-fed. Remind them that they are Rov’s sword arm, and that today they’ve shown an impetuous little war-mongerer and important lesson: Cairn is not to be trifled with!”

There was a roar of agreement, and some pounding of fists on the table. The generals stood, clapping Ira on the back, trading words of encouragement and wisdom, before filing out one by one.

~*~

Ira awoke well after midnight, to the sound of someone entering the tent. He sword was already half unsheathed before he realized it was one of his own messengers, and that Lore was also awake and pulling on his boots beside the cot.

_Activity in the enemy camp_ , the assassin signed in the semi-darkness before the messenger had even spoken.

_Lets go._

Ira pulled on woolen pants, cloak, and boots as quickly as he could and followed Lore out of the tent. The other man, dressed in his habitual black, was like another shadow in the darkness. Nearly invisible.

They followed the messenger silently through their sleeping troops, past the high watchfires, and into the darkness of the woods before emerging at an open place above the valley where they could look down and across at Tavish’s camp. The air was crisp and cold, and their breath rose in white clouds. Ira shivered a little, underdressed.

The messenger pointed. At the southern end of Tavish’s camp, off in the distance, flames stretched high into the sky.

It was much bigger than a watch fire. Ira could see tiny figures running around and, carried by the crisp night air, the faint sound of shouts of alarm. It looked like an accident. A tent caught fire, perhaps.

Ira turned to ask Lore what he thought and found the air beside him empty.

When Ira arrived back at his tent he found Lore fully dressed in wool and silk, his sword over his shoulders. A black piece of cloth lay unfurled on his lap, and he was expertly picking up and inspecting a set of suspicious looking tools with his long fingers.

“What are you doing?” Ira asked. His tone had just an edge of threat to it. Lore did not even look up.

“I’m going to Tavish’s camp,” he replied. Apparently satisfied with the contents of his collection, he was rolling up the black piece of cloth and tucking the bundle into the inside of his shirt.

“Now? We never discussed it.” Ira felt dread rising in him.

“The opportunity has arrived,” said Lore simply. “First the retreat, now the fire in the camp. Fate has spoken, and tonight is the time for it. Now they are disorganized and fighting among themselves. After this they will become more careful. If I do not go now, it will be more difficult.”

He began sorting through a collection of knives, selecting two, and tucking them away in hidden sheaths. Ira’s eyes tracked his movements.

“Its too soon,” Ira objected. “I forbid it.”

His dread was turning to panic, and he tried to push it down. The assassin was acting, and Ira had not seen it coming. Was this the moment he would be betrayed?

“It is imperative you learn what is happening inside that camp,” Lore reasoned, not even pausing in his motions. “As your generals implied, there will be infighting, and we must know who is directing things. And, further, you must know where their weak spots are.” Lore paused, his eyes flicking to the warlord’s face. “Miko wants to cause havoc, remember? I’ll be able to tell you exactly how. We’ve gone over all the signals. You know them perfectly. I’ll communicate with you in three nights time with the lantern.” Lore patted a pocket. Presumably where he’d hidden the lantern. “Stand on the ridge where we saw the fire three hours before dawn.”

Ira’s stomach was in knots. He had known that this time would come. This moment of reckoning. That Lore would leave, either to betray or to help him. It was the reason Rov had sent him, the reason he’d been placed as Ira’s retainer. But Ira was not ready. He had not expected it to come so soon. Lore was like an avalanche out of control. Ira had no way to reign him in, to curtail him, to prevent him from doing damage.

Ira stepped forward and grabbed Lore’s arm as he was busy checking the straps for his back sheath. Lore froze and looked up into the warlord’s dark eyes, startled by the sudden physical contact.

“Assassin…” Ira’s voice came out tense and grating, and he cursed himself for giving away his internal struggle. There was something else, too. Ira would never admit it to anyone aloud, but he had enjoyed the assassin’s companionship. Lore was attractive and deadly and _interesting_. His presence had made Ira think and feel things he was unused to thinking and feeling. He was challenged to keep up in a way had not been for many years, and although that challenge was sometimes uncomfortable, Ira liked it. It kept him on his toes. Made him sharper.

Lore’s expression softened ever so slightly, his generous mouth curving and his eyes losing their intensity. He mirrored Ira’s grip with his other hand, grabbing the warlord’s right bicep with a firm grip in a gesture of companionship rather than holding.

“Yes, I know, betray Rov and you’ll kill me. Got it. Now let me go. Let me do this. You need it if you want to win. You need me.”

Ira dropped his hand, defeated. Lore looked into his eyes a moment longer, searching. Ira thought he could detect the slightest look of pity, but it was difficult to tell on the assassin’s impassive face. “I’ll be back. Don’t kill me by accident when I do. I’ll be dressed like them, but I’ll have white silk on my hood.”

There was nothing Ira could do. It was Rov’s orders, and he had agreed to them. He would just have to adjust. And if Lore betrayed him, so be it.

It was an annoying complication. He would deal with it as he could. That was all there was to it.

“Go.” He said stiffly.

Lore went, folding into the shadows like an extension of the night, leaving Ira’s tent feeling cold and empty.

~*~

For two days after the first failed raid from Tavish, Ira dealt with probing attacks from the enemy army.

Rather than directly across the valley floor, these came from the North, behind a shielding ridge, and from the south, up the dry rocky creekbed in the early hours of morning.

This creekbed Ira felt was his weakest point. The shoulder of a low mountain protected his back, and watchers on the ridge could see enemy soldiers coming from the North or directly across the plain in the east. The south was hidden and the rocky sides of the creekbed steep and treacherous for fighting. Ira was glad that he had the advantage of the uphill, and that one of his generals had had the foresight to pile rocks at the top of the gully to throw down on invaders foolish enough to stay in the vee of the trench rather than up higher on its banks.

In both battles Ira estimated that the costs to Tavish’s forces were higher than his own and so counted them as victories.

He thought hard about what Tavish might do with an insider’s perspective on their position, assuming Lore betrayed him. He decided the worst possible outcome was that a contingent of troops got around them and through the passes and attacked Cairn while he was here, twelve days march away. He stationed watchers at every conceivable point that soldiers might travel. Rov would already have watchers in the hills, too. If anyone showed up there unexpectedly, she could probably hold the castle until her army returned.

Probably.

On the third day there were no attacks, and Ira’s forces took the opportunity to sharpen swords, clean armour, look after the wounded, and improve defenses. They dug ditches and cut logs into spikes, cleared trees, and piled rubble above the creekbed.

Ira spent the day in consultation with his generals, planning under the bright harsh sun of winter, scrolls and maps laid out on folding tables in the fresh, still air.

In the evening it finally snowed, and for Ira it felt like a release. He sat with Miko by the cookfires and watched crisp fat flakes drift from the sky and hiss on the hot coals.

He barely slept the night Lore was supposed to report. He rose restless from his sleeping platform well before the appointed time to bundle himself in furs and walk out through the cold to the place where he had stood when he had seen the fire in Tavish’s camp.

He found a woman soldier there, seated but alert, a sword across her legs, looking out over the valley for any sign of movement. When she heard him coming she turned and signalled for him to halt. The moon was bright enough for her to see his face, but she asked him for his password instinctually. He gave it and she relaxed, unphased and unintimidated by the sudden appearance of the warlord at her post in the middle of the night.

“Is something needed, warlord?” she asked as he joined her at her post. He shook his head.

“There will be a message coming to me here,” he said. He checked the position of the moon, his breath steaming on the air.

“It won’t be long now.”

“Would you like privacy, warlord?” she asked tactfully, and Ira smiled at her consideration.

“No,” he said, “you can help me look for it when the time comes. Tell me your name.”

“Vera,” she said, settling back to her alert watch. “of the Bearl Valley.”

Ira looked at her sharply. She named a place below them to the south. A place Tavish had almost certainly been through on his way to his current encampment.

“Have you had word from your relatives, Vera?” he asked. She shook her head.

“Not since the autumn. But I have six brothers, all of them able young men. I am certain they were able to find shelter in time.”

Ira nodded, and hoped this was true.

Then, changing the subject, he asked, “can you write, Vera?”

“Yes lord.”

“Take this,” Ira passed her parchment and charcoal and showed her the four signs Lore had taught him.

“When the signal comes, record what you see.”

Vera took the materials obediently and smoothed the parchment on the rock beside her. The two of them sat in alert silence for a few more minutes.

Far across the valley, Tavish’s watchfires flickered and clawed at the sky. The snow had stopped, and there was no movement.

Suddenly, Vera leaned forward, pointing to the south end of the camp.

“There,” she said, “is that it?”

Ira looked where she was pointing and saw a flash of white light, blinking off and on with regularity. He recognised it immediately.

“Yes,” he said. “that’s it.” As Vera reached for her paper he added, “just wait. The message has not begun yet.”

The lantern flashed a few more times and then paused. Ira and Vera stared together at the spot where it had disappeared.

“It will come now. The same pattern three times, so you can fill in anything you miss,” said Ira tersely. Vera nodded, ready.

Presently the message came. It was delivered more slowly than Ira was used to from their practice. This was necessitated by distance, Ira thought, rather than being a reflection of Lore’s lack of faith in his ability. It would be easy for the flashes to blur together across space. Its slowness made it easy for Ira to understand. By the second round he was sure he had it. The third was a confirmation.

_Supply wagon_. _Two Days. Southern Route. House B-R-A-I-L controls forces. K-E-L-L dead in fire. Return for message three nights from now. Same arrangement._

After the third round, the lantern went dark. They waited for a few more minutes to see if there would be any further movement. When there was none, Vera handed her parchment to Ira. She didn’t ask what it said. He thanked her absently, distracted by the implications of what he had just learned.

“See to it that you’re assigned the same watch in three nights time,” Ira told her. “Tell Hael its an order from me personally.”

Vera saluted and Ira left, returning to his quarters to think things over. How much risk could he afford to take on the truth?


	5. Chapter 5

In the end Ira told his generals everything Lore had said.

To do otherwise would have been a betrayal of Rov’s intentions, to covet power for himself, and to value his own judgement over his queen’s. None of that was in Ira’s nature.

They, being better servants that Ira, were less inclined to doubt the assassin’s oath and his message. But also being intelligent and prudent people, were willing to entertain Ira’s suspicion enough to be reserved in their commitment to action and to put a backup plan in place. All of this satisfied Ira, although he still feared for Miko, who would lead the attack on the supply wagon and whose life would almost certainly be forfeit if Lore was setting them up.

But Lore had not lied. The supply wagon was there, and vulnerable, and Miko destroyed it with all the wrath and energy of pent up youth, descending from the mountains with her elite force of mounted riders in a flurry of deadly steel.

It was the offensive move they had been looking for. The effects were immediate, and the watchers saw unrest in the camp as news of the supply wagon’s fate reached the enemy camp. Men paced and left their posts. There was a small altercation near the cook tents when a group stormed the existing supply wagons.

Ira was not foolish enough to take this as final proof of Lore’s trustworthiness. Feeding small pieces of accurate information could easily be a way to win trust among the generals. Ira had made his distrust too obvious, but perhaps Lore hoped that the others could be swayed and force Ira’s hand. As Rov had.

On the night after Miko’s attack on the supply wagon Lore’s message read: _House M-E-R-K causing trouble. House T-A-V-I-S-H weak. Maybe a coup. Expect attack soon. Tell M-I-K-O I’m glad she liked my present. Return for message three days. Same arrangement._

Ira was annoyed that the assassin would take the time to be flippant about Miko’s victory. This feeling was exacerbated by the vague and unhelpful nature of the message.

Of course there would be an attack soon. They were at war.

Ira couldn’t help feeling like a fish on hook. Lore kept him coming back for information but fed him little of use.

He was on edge, and kept his generals on edge, until the attack came. But the battle was short-lived and unsatisfying. An attempt, Hael suggested, the rally numbers behind Merk or Brail. Whichever general it was, he failed, and Rov’s forces succeeded in paring down their numbers a little more before forcing them back behind their fortifications.

The next message came earlier than expected. Ira was asleep when Vera woke him and took him to the lookout where the lantern was flashing:

_Attack on northern pass imminent. They will try to flank you and take the road to Cairn. I’m coming back._

~*~

Under Ira, Rov’s army mobilized quietly, without raising the fires. Forces began heading into the northern hills under the cover of dark.

They were working on only a few hours sleep and it had begun to snow again. Not the fat flakes of a week before, but a flurry of ice which made the footing treacherous and good sight lines difficult. Ira couldn’t see the enemy move, and felt like he was working blind.

He wondered, almost habitually now, if this was Lore’s ploy at last – have them move in the wrong direction and then crush them under the cover of darkness.

After a little analysis he concluded that it seemed unlikely – an attack on the camp would give Tavish the hotspring, but would succeed only in pushing Ira directly into the route the Cairn. In the passes Ira’s army would be less comfortable but could easily set ambushes, communicate with allies, and defend the road - even with significant losses to his fighting force. It would be a waste of a ploy, if that were it.

Besides, as Hael and Fae pointed out, there was no way they could risk _not_ acting on Lore’s information and getting cut off from Cairn. Non-action could not be considered.

As it was, Tavish moved earlier and more smoothly than Ira expected.

The attack, when it came in the grey dawn, had a different feel than the earlier initiatives. It was organized, deadly, and well-planned. The fighting was fierce and dirty in the close quarters of the valley bottom. The heavy snow muted shouts and screams, lending a vividness to the smell of blood and sweat.

Ira found himself in the thick of it, riding wave after wave of attack and retreat until his horse went down under the long pike of one of Tavish’s foot soldiers. Then he found himself with boots on the cold hard dirt, broadsword swinging, as he faced wave after wave of attack. The snow fell thicker.

At some point in the battle, Ira had no idea when, he was delivering a blow to some hapless enemy soldier when he found his sword expertly deflected by a thin, familiar-looking blade. Then enemy soldier’s smaller body crashed directly into him and hissed “its me, idiot.”

Ira, without missing a beat, ripped Tavish’s silk from Lore’s stolen armour and shoved the assassin behind him. A signal to a nearby mounted unit brought them storming down on Ira’s position. Lore disappeared between the horses for a moment, and when Ira saw him next, he was being dragged to the back lines by a grinning Yael.

~*~ 

In the end, they held the pass. The victory came at a significant price. Ira’s forces were noticeably diminished. They had lost a large number of horses to the difficult terrain and cleverly positioned pikes of the enemy.

Tavish had suffered his own losses. Ira estimated several hundred soldiers had lost their lives to Rov’s swords. And they had gained nothing in return. But the satisfaction felt hollow when Ira considered the toll it had taken.

He left a small force camped in the pass under Miko while the rest of the army returned to the camp to nurse their wounds. The snow stopped before nightfall and Ira found himself busy re-arranging troops, re-allocating resources, visiting the medical tents, and sending messengers – to Rov, to Miko, to allies. It was late when he returned to his own quarters, exhausted and worried.

He had almost forgotten about Lore, and was surprised when he entered his tent to find him there.

The assassin was asleep or unconscious. He had not bothered to set up the cot, but had collapsed beside the fire without ceremony. He had removed some of his armour, but was till wearing his leg and arm braces. He still muddy and crusted with blood.

He didn’t move when Ira came in, but the sound of Ira’s armour hitting the tent floor startled him into wakefulness. Ira froze as the assassin sat bolt upright, hand on his hip. But there was no dagger there. Lore had removed that, at least, when he came in. It was beside Ira at the door.

There was a moment of startled silence as Lore caught his breath.

“Oh,” he said finally, “its you.”

He relaxed back onto the ground, flinching as he did.

Ira continued unbuckling his armour and placing pieces aside without saying anything. His body was sore and aching. His mind was tired. He didn’t have the mental energy to deal with the assassin. 

“Do you have a report?” Ira asked finally, pulling off snow-crusted boots.

Lore grunted in response, but didn’t move. Ira felt the first stirrings of worry. The assassin was not himself.

“Give it.” He said. His eyes ran over the other man’s body, looking for injuries. There was blood, but whose?

“I have to go back,” Lore whispered instead. Ira said nothing, pulling his base layer or sweaty wool up over his head so that he stood bare-chested in the fire light. Then he joined Lore by the fire, standing over him with his hands on his hips.

“Not before you report,” Ira said coldly. His eyes were still scanning for injuries.

Lore rolled on to his back so he could look up at the warlord’s face. There was the smallest hint of amusement there, but it was under considerable exhaustion and pain. “Its nice to see you too.”

Now Ira could see that there was blood soaking the shoulder of his black shirt. It was still wet. Bleeding sluggishly. There were dark bruises under Lore’s eyes and his cheeks had a sunken look. His time in Tavish’s camp had been hard on him.

“You’re hurt” Ira’s voice was softer. “And you look terrible.”

Lore flinched. “I did not sleep much. Tavish’s camp is not an easy place to be for me. Near the end last night someone stabbed me.”

“Sit up. I want to look at it. You can talk while I work.” He dropped to his haunches next to the assassin, reaching out to finger the torn cloth at his shoulder.

Lore obeyed, moving slowly. Ira pulled out a small, sharp dagger from his hip and cut black fabric away from Lore’s neck There was more blood than he had first thought. As he gently pulled sticky black cloth away from warm olive skin, Lore talked. His voice was tired and thin.

He had entered the camp under the cover of the confusion from the fire and stolen a uniform from an empty tent. The fire had been set intentionally, it turned out. It was an attack on Kell, who had died along with his most loyal generals in the flames. After Kell’s death Brail had seized control of the camp. He still bowed to Tavish, but it was an arrangement of convenience. Tavish remained a figurehead, and dared not contradict Brail’s orders.

Merk had emerged as a secondary contender for power. This was the moment when Lore had thought there would be a coup, but nothing had come out of it. Merk quickly subsided under Brail’s control. Lore suspected Brail had hostages, and he’d been threatened into submission. It had been Brail who had run the attack on the pass. Without the infighting between him and Kell, discipline tightened. This had been a difficult time for Lore, because Brail had started paying attention to strangers.

“Things move quickly in Tavish’s camp,” Lore observed as he finished, his eyes slightly unfocused. Ira had cleaned away the ruined fabric, leaving Lore bare chested and shivering slightly, even in the warm air of the tent. There was a deep gouge high on Lore’s bicep, seeping blood sluggishly.

“Stay here, I’ll be back.” Ira realized how ridiculous he sounded as Lore slumped back down to the ground. The man was not going anywhere.

Ira picked up a canteen and left the tent.

His mind whirled. Lore had not betrayed them. Yet. He had come back. He had been hurt…and Ira felt badly about it. As bad as he would feel if one of his own soldiers had been injured in the line of duty. Weak and vulnerable, he had come back to Ira. Not to the medical tents. The whole scenario screamed either “strong sense of duty” or “strong need to gain trust,” and Ira was not sure which.

It was strange to see Lore like this. Ira was used to the assassin being cool and self-possessed – fully in control of his own faculties. Ira was used to feeling afraid of him – he was deadly and he knew too much. It was hard to feel afraid of a man who was bleeding and so exhausted he could barely sit up.

Ira walked to the hot spring, where he filled his container with warm water from the pool. There were soldiers there, soaking sore muscles and talking quietly. Ira watched them jealously as he waited for his container to fill. He could feel his body tightening from the exertions of the day. Tomorrow would be sore. He wished he had time to soak too, but the assassin’s wounds wouldn’t wait.

He realized, with a start, that he was glad to see Lore again. And not just because he wanted to keep an eye on him. He had genuinely missed the assassin. He had enjoyed the challenge of learning hand sign, their sparring, and their conversations around the fire. He missed having the other near him, the sound of his breath in the tent, the assassin’s quick, teasing smiles and flashing blue eyes.

Then, as he looked over at the men and women lounging in the hot pools, he found himself unexpectedly fantasizing about what Lore would look like naked in the water. He imagined those hard muscles under the assassin’s smooth skin softening in the heat, his hair dripping, a lazy smile on his perfect mouth…

He slammed the door on that thought.

Inappropriate. Inappropriate and dangerous. Very very dangerous.

With the canteen full or warm water he returned to Lore, who had fallen asleep again. Ira woke him with a gentle shake, frowning.

This was unnatural. He must have lost a lot of blood. Combined with exhaustion the assassin was weaker than Ira had ever seen him.

Ira found gut, a needle, and rags and coaxed the assassin to a seated position. He put a hand under Lore’s arm to separate the injured arm from Lore’s body. The assassin cringed at the movement. If Lore was telling the truth, it had been bleeding all day under the armour. It would need stitches. 

As Ira carefully wiped away blood, Lore continued, his voice now tight with pain.

He had memorized a large number of details about the position and relative strength of the encampment itself. It relied on supplies from the south. There were an excess, in Lore’s opinion, of hangers on – cooks and merchants and hostages. It spilled out of him in a stream.

Ira absorbed all of it with care and attention, asking questions where Lore’s details seemed sketchy or incomplete.

Ira went through an alarming number of rags as he cleaned the wound, and turned the water a dark, dirty red. It took a long time to get the wound clean enough to stitch. When Ira finally got into it, the assassin fell silent, breathing deeply through the pain as Ira thoroughly flushed the wound with alcohol.

When it was clean to Ira’s satisfaction, he began stringing gut through a long steel needle. Lore eyed him suspiciously.

“I would send you to the medical tents, but they are rather busy this evening,” Ira explained. This was true enough. It would take hours to find someone to stich up the assassin, and Ira, like any good soldier, was capable of doing it himself. He tied a quick knot is his thread with deft hands.

“I’m sure you’ll find my skills sufficient.” Lore accepted this wordlessly.

After a while, Ira asked, “did anyone suspect you?”

Lore shook his head. “I stayed away from anyone who might recognize me. It meant I could not access some places. Brail would almost certainly know me if he saw my face, and so would any of Kell’s people. Or former people, now. I stayed with Rosen’s troops or hid when I had to. Rosen is a lesser general with a small force and no one pays much attention.”

“When will you go back?”

At this, Lore closed his eyes and Ira watched a shadow cross over his face. The lines under his eyes seemed suddenly deeper.

“Tonight, warlord. In the aftermath of the battle while things are still up in the air.” His voice was soft. Almost apologetic. Then, remembering that things would be up in the air in Ira’s camp as much as Tavish’s he opened his eyes and looked sharply at the him.

“I trust you’ve taken precautions to ensure you were not infiltrated tonight, in the confusion or retreat.”

“As much as can be done in these circumstances,” Ira replied mildly. He didn’t add that Lore’s education had taught him a number of things he hadn’t known about what to look for.

Lore relaxed. “Good. If any new faces crop up, be very suspicious. Tavish and Brail both use hired assassins regularly. They have a great number on hire at any one time. You should assume you’ve been infiltrated at some level. You will find them out if you’re very careful.”

Ira, who was always careful, chose not to respond.

Lore sighed. “When I go this time we can coordinate an offensive. If I set fire to something, it will be a good time for Miko to run a night attack.”

“Good,” Ira replied, “She will like that.” Indeed, the council had been saying a similar thing for days. For now, Rov’s army only responded but never initiated. If they wanted to weaken Tavish they needed to do more than respond. They needed to poke him where it would hurt.

Ira kept his eyes down as he added, “but I do not think you should go tonight. You are injured. You should give yourself some time to heal.”

“The area where the hangers on are camped would be a good place,” Lore said a little dreamily. He seemed not to have heard Ira’s argument. “But now that you understand the layout we can coordinate with the lantern…”

Ira stared at the assassin flatly. “Not tonight, assassin,” he said more firmly. In response, Lore swayed gently and looked like he was about to pass out. Ira sighed.

“Come here. I’m going to stitch this up, but I will have to hold you so you don’t move.” The light was better up high than in the shadows of the fire. Ira pulled Lore up onto his platform bed, pushing back blankets so as to keep them clean of the blood. He left Lore briefly to fetch a chunk of ice from outside, which he wrapped in cloth and then pushed against Lore’s arm to numb it. “Hold that there.”

Lore obeyed, but was silent. He sat upright on the platform with his knees hugged tightly against his chest. Any remaining energy seemed to have drained from him. He was glassy-eyed. Ira watched him for several long minutes as the ice did its work, numbing the flesh around the wound.

After a time, Ira pried Lore’s fingers off the ice chunk and set it aside. Lore did not resist or even look at him.

Ira took a deep breath and pulled Lore’s body close to his own. He wanted to be able to hold him still in case the pain made him try and flinch away. The assassin felt small and fragile against him. It was hard to remember that he was a potential threat to national security. He just seemed vulnerable and tired.

“Hold as still as you can,” he said, thread held in his teeth. “I’ll go quickly.”

The other man’s body was drawn tight as a bow, prepared for the pain. Ira went to work quickly and neatly, pulling he ripped flesh together with needle and thread. Lore didn’t flinch or utter a sound. He was either tough or too woozy to feel it. When Ira was done, Ira leaned back a little to admire his work.

Then, before he could stop himself, Ira pushed sweaty blonde hair out of the assassin’s face with one hand. Lore’s skin was clammy and his eyes closed. He didn’t react to the touch. Ira pulled away, fighting off worry.

“There. Its finished. Give me another minute and I’ll wrap it.” He was speaking softly, as if to an injured horse. Lore still didn’t move as Ira untangled himself and went to find fresh gauze from his field kit. He returned to the assassin bandaged the arm and shoulder expertly. Then, satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back to eye the assassin critically.

Lore was still shivering, and had grown even more pale.

Ira sighed. He was beginning to feel his own exhaustion overtake him. It had been a long day, and he needed to sleep almost as much as Lore did.

Rather than face the prospect of carrying Lore across the tent and setting up the cot, Ira pushed him down where he was. “Sleep here. You’re not going anywhere tonight, fires or not.”

Lore obeyed, teeth chattering, and Ira pulled wool and furs over him.

If he had been less exhausted, he might have had the presence of mind to wonder at himself – treating the assassin, who he did not trust, like a friend. Pushing hair out of his eyes. Tucking him in in his own bed. He felt almost protective.

As it was, he did not have the energy to analyse his actions, or the feelings that drove them. He barely had enough time to wash his bloody hands and blow out the lanterns before crawling under the furs next to the assassin.

But once he was there, he immediately felt strange. He had not shared a bed with someone in years. They were far enough apart that they didn’t touch, but he was acutely aware of the other man’s presence nonetheless.

To Lore, it didn’t matter. He was fast asleep. Ira listened to him breathing softly for a few minutes, and then before he knew it was asleep himself.

~*~ 

When he woke again it was still dark. And there was a hand over his mouth.

Ira was about to panic when Lore’s voice came from right next to his year, so quiet it could have been a breath of wind.

“It’s a night attack. They’ve come for you.”

Full consciousness came quickly to Ira. Adrenaline tingled in his veins.

In the silence he could hear the whisper of an extremely sharp blade sliding though tent fabric.

Lore, beside him, said in the same quiet tones, “when they come in you must pretend you are asleep. Wait for me before you move. We must attack together. There are six of them.”

Ira absorbed this information and began calculating their chances. Lore sounded remarkably awake, considering how dozy he’d been last night. But still, there were six of them. Coming through the wall. Ira always slept with a dagger, but the rest of their weapons were by the door. _Foolish…_

Lore removed his hand from Ira’s mouth, apparently satisfied that the warlord would stay quiet.

But to the warlord’s surprise, instead of pulling away, Lore’s soft fingers slid silently down his body to rest on Ira’s stomach. Ira’s breath caught. He couldn’t help the small shiver of pleasure it gave him. He was immediately disgusted by himself. Yes, it would have been deeply erotic if they had not been waiting for six attackers to come through the wall. But at the moment his reaction was deeply inappropriate.

It really didn’t help that Lore’s body was pressed tight against Ira’s. Ira could feel his heat, and his heartbeat, and generous swaths of smooth skin…

The fact that he was in imminent danger apparently was not enough to stop Ira from responding to Lore’s touch. He felt his breath quicken and his blood burn hot in his veins and knew it was about more than just six attackers coming through his tent walls.

Ira fought for mental balance. Whatever Lore was doing, it didn’t mean anything. His proximity was so that whoever was coming in would see only one shape under the blankets, and not suspect there were two of them. It was a tactic, not a come-on. He should _not_ be enjoying this.

Ira relaxed his muscles and made his breath slow and even. He focused on the minute movements he needed to get his free hand to the hilt of his dagger and tried not to think about the way that Lore’s body fit so neatly against his own, how he could feel lithe muscles thrumming with tension, the faint smell of smoke in his hair, or how good it would feel if the light hand on his stomach slipped lower.

They lay silently like that for what seemed like an eternity. Ira fought down his libido and tried to focus on the tiny sounds of expert assassins work their way to kill him.

Ira kept his eyes closed, but he didn’t need to see the tent to know when his enemies entered. They brought cool air in on their bodies, changing the feel of the warm room.

He wondered fleetingly if the change in the air would have been enough to wake him if Lore had not been there. Would he have died tonight?

Ira could detect shadowy movement through his eyelids as they entered into the tent. They had a little light, held high. It waved closer, sending wavering light over the bed.

Lore did not move.

Ira felt a sudden panic. Had Lore fallen asleep again in his injured stupor? Was this a setup? It was impossible to know. The sound of breath (not Lore’s) and soft footsteps told Ira they were moving in around the sleeping platform. Closer…closer still.

Lore still didn’t move, but Ira could feel his heartbeat, pressed highly against Ira’s own ribcage, escalate a little faster. Not asleep then. Still waiting. But why wait so long…?

A dark shadow leaned over the platform, darkening the light over Ira’s face.

The warlord could take the strain no longer. He couldn’t help himself - his body tensed instinctively. There was no way to hide the movement from the watchers.

Next to him, Lore exploded into action. Ira caught a glimpse of a wool blanket wrapping around a man’s head and the flash of a short blade (where had it been hidden?) as the blonde assassin expertly dispatched his target. 

Slightly slower but driven by adrenaline, Ira came out of the bed blade first, sending his dagger deep into the chest of the one who had leaned over him.

He realized too late that, in his panic, he had put too much power behind the blow. It stuck in the attacker’s ribs as the man stumbled backwards, taking Ira’s dagger with him. 

Ira was now weaponless and they were still facing five armed assassins. He looked around frantically.

There was a clatter, and Ira looked up in time to see Lore kick his broadsword at him.

The assassin was mid-scuffle near the tent door with a second black-robed shape. As Ira caught his blade he saw Lore’s victim fall and Lore spin into the next. Ira got his blade up in time to block the snaking dagger of a forth man as it came at his belly. The wet thud of knives hitting flesh somewhere to the left told him Lore had found something to throw at the fifth attacker, who had got behind Ira while he dealt with number four.

Outside, Ira heard shouting.

Then, all of a sudden, Miko was in the fray, a torch in her hand blazing so brightly it blinded Ira. He looked away suddenly, trying to protect his eyes. He heard Lore cry out wordlessly, more shouts, the scampering of feet. The tent erupted in chaos. There was a cacophony of shouts and metal blades and crashing things.

Ira’s eyes adjusted, and he found his tent full of familiar faces. Miko, torch held high, was doing most of the shouting. Shapes in black were fleeing the tent like cockroaches under the light. One was crawling through the ruined wall of Ira’s tent. The next second saw Miko on top of the escapee, blade flashing.

In the chaos Ira saw Lore slip out of the door, following more fleeing figures.

“Lore stop!” he yelled, but the assassin was gone. Quick as a shadow himself. Ira swore.

Miko had caught the one who’d been trying to escape. Two more lay dead on the floor. She turned, furious, to the soldiers who had followed her in.

“Yael! Take this one to the medicine tent. Tell them to keep him alive, if they can. Don’t take your eyes off him. Nev, Far, help her. The rest of you, outside! If there are footprints or blood or any other sign I want them found and examined. Some of them will be injured.”

Everyone still had their swords drawn, uncertain as to whether the threat was over. But Miko’s brain moved faster than anyone else’s, going immediately to damage control before the dust had had a chance to settle. At her words they sprung into action.

Miko strode immediately to Ira, her sword still drawn.

“Warlord, are you hurt? What happened?”

Ira collected his scattered wits, looked around for something to clean his sword with, found only the bloody rags from last night’s surgery.

It made him think about Lore. The idiot had probably torn his stitches. He wiped the blade on the leg of his pants and sheathed it, trying to collect his wits.

“I’m not hurt. It was a night attack,” he said.

Ira was gratified by the look of suspicion on his general’s face as Miko suddenly realized that Lore was missing and looked around for the assassin. But he shook his head in response to the unspoken accusation.

“Lore woke me. Killed that one.” Ira pointed.

“I’d be dead if he hadn’t. He went after the others when they scattered. I assume he’ll be back eventually.” Outside, the sound of a camp roused could be heard, like a hive of bees disturbed from slumber. Miko looked around the room, recreating the scene in her mind. As if he’d heard himself summoned, Lore re-appeared through the door to the tent, out of breath, still shirtless, and annoyed.

“They got away,” he said irritably. He tossed his dirk down on his unused cot, and started pacing around the tent, picking up pieces of his kit from where he’d left them the night before. Ira watched him in surprise. He was a different person than he had been when Ira had pushed him into bed last night. All the exhaustion had seemingly been burned out of him by the fight.

As Lore turned Ira caught a glimpse of blood at his shoulder. He caught the assassin’s injured arm and brought him to a flinching halt. He glared at the warlord.

“Ow.”

“You tore your stitches.” The wound was bleeding through its bandages. Lore tried to shrug off Ira’s grip, but the warlord held him tightly.

“It’s fine. I fought with it open all day yesterday.”

“And you were death itself by the time you got back here. You’re not fine, Lore.”

Lore’s gaze flicked to Miko and Ira was suddenly reminded of his general’s presence. Miko was observing their exchange silently. Their truce was not something she had personally witnessed before, and Ira was acutely aware that his concern for the assassin was out of character. He was acting like a mother hen.

Under her surprised gaze Ira dropped his hold on Lore. The assassin, freed, went back to packing his tools.

“Its much better than it was,” Lore replied vaguely. “I’ll wrap it again before I go.”

“You’re going back.” Ira made it a statement, rather than a question, and was surprised by the exhaustion in his voice.

“Yes warlord,” Lore replied formally. “The timing is even better now. There is no way they will expect it.”

Ira sat down heavily on the edge of the sleeping platform. As the adrenaline left his body he felt the aches and pains from yesterday’s battle seeping in.

“Tell Miko my news,” Lore said lightly, losing his formality as quickly as he’d adopted it a moment before. “She’ll be pleased.”

Outside, the sounds of the hunt were dying down. “There’s going to be an inconvenient fire,” Ira said grudgingly, and was annoyed to see his general’s face light up. Miko was nothing if not predictable.

“An offence.” Miko observed, sounding immensely satisfied.

“Provided our agent doesn’t die of blood-loss first,” Ira said darkly.

At that moment Yael poked her head through the door of the tent. “The prisoner is under guard in the medical tents,” she reported, “Hara says you should have avoided his lungs if you wanted him to live.” Her tone suggested her own indifference on the matter. Miko winced.

“Were any more found?”

“No, general. We lost the trail in the woods. At least one of them was bleeding pretty heavily, though. And we found this.” She held up a throwing knife, caked in red snow.

“Ah,” said Lore, “thank-you.”

He went to Yael and took the knife from her deftly, wiping it on the leg of his black silks. The three others eyed him with a mix of admiration and horror. Ira was reminded of the fact that Lore had taken on four of six while he had struggled with two – and it would have been only one, if the assassin hadn’t had the clarity of mind and sheer athleticism necessary to kick him a broadsword mid scuffle.

It was a deadly side to Lore that Ira had not before personally experienced, their one-on-one encounters not withstanding. Sneak attackers were clearly a different game altogether, one at which Lore was extremely skilled.

Lore had never said anything about his standing in the school or his relative talent as an assassin, but it was clear to Ira suddenly that he was dealing with a man of better than average ability. He wondered absently what kind of pay he’d drawn from Tavish. Or maybe was still drawing.

“Yael, will you bring me another set of field wraps?” Ira asked absently, his eyes still on Lore.

Yael saluted and withdrew. Miko seated herself on the edge of Lore’s undisturbed cot, reluctant to leave her commander alone in the aftermath.

“You won’t be able to sleep here until the wall is repaired,” she observed.

“I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyway,” Ira replied.

“I’ll have someone bring your things to my tent,” Miko said, ignoring him. “You can sleep there for now. And I’m putting an extra watch on you.”

Ira wanted to object, but knew it was useless. An extra watch would be annoying and pointless – there was no way they would attack again any time soon.

But he knew an extra watch would make everyone else feel better, and sometimes that was just as important. Ira suspected there would be some fairly serious self-doubt among his people stemming from the night’s activities and the attackers’ ability to get so deep behind their lines.

Ira knew that his continued good health, although not as important to Rov’s, was an essential component of Cairn’s success, its tight cohesion, and its discipline. These factors were more important than his own privacy and convenience.

“Where will you sleep?” He asked instead.

Yael appeared with bandages and gauze, and as Ira took them from her he saw her supress a secretive smile at the comment. He looked sharply at Miko, who dropped her gaze.

“I thought it was well-known,” Miko said sheepishly, “I usually sleep elsewhere.”

Lore had finished his preparations and flopped down on the tent floor in front of Ira. He had apparently decided to let the warlord re-wrap it.

“Where’s that, Miko?” Lore asked innocently, clearly in on the secret. Ira looked between the three of them with surprise. As a rule he didn’t involve himself in the sleeping arrangements of his army, but he prided himself in at least knowing, in a general sense, the ebb and flow of interrelations. The knowledge could be an important part of planning. He watched in amazement as his general’s cheeks turned ever so slightly pink.

“Morgan,” she confessed, naming one of the riders in Hael’s squad, a tall man Ira remembered as being particularly adept with distance weapons. He was clever and considered, where Miko could be brash and blunt. It was an unlikely but interesting combination.

Ira smiled to himself, enjoying Miko’s discomfort. Lore sat obediently in front of Ira and the warlord began carefully unwrapping the bloody bandages from Lore’s shoulder.

“You find cavalry’s quarters more comfortable than your own?” Ira asked archly. Miko turned slightly pinker.

“Perhaps you’re the one who needs an extra watch,” Ira said mildly. “to keep you out of trouble.” Putting Miko in her place made Ira feel marginally more in control of the whole situation.

Yael suppressed another smile, and took the bloody bandages from Ira’s hands. Underneath, it was clear that Lore had indeed torn his new stitches. But the blood that flowed was clean, bright, and red. A good sign. Yael passed him a damp cloth and Ira wiped away the fresh blood gently before picking up the fresh gauze and re-wrapping it – more tightly this time. Yael assisted, making the job much easier than it had been the night before.

When they had finished Lore stood and stretched, testing out his mobility. He would be slightly restricted on his left side, Ira saw, but nothing that would prevent him from using a weapon if he had to.

“How long until dawn?” he asked Yael.

“Maybe two hours,” she estimated. Lore nodded, looked from Miko to Ira.

“I have to go,” he said simply. Then, to Ira, “we will follow the same schedule as before.”

Ira fought off exhaustion and wondered how the assassin was managing to stand upright, let alone planning to run several miles across the valley floor and infiltrate an enemy army.

He felt a pang, realizing that, foolish though it was, he didn’t want to lose the assassin’s easy companionship. He had, ridiculously enough, missed coming home to another presence in his quarters, no matter how potentially lethal and/or treacherous the man might be. The assassin’s brief return had given him hope of a longer stay, and more opportunities for conversation.

Lore picked up the few remaining tools and stashed them in various pockets, belted his sword across his back, and pulled on a thick black wool coat. Miko stood and passed him the dagger he’d tossed on the cot, hilt first.

“Set good fires,” the general said.

Lore gave her a wolfish grin as answer, sheathed the knife, and then slipped out into the night, quick and silent.


	6. Chapter 6

Lore slipped through the lines of Tavish’s army easily via its camp of hangers-on, where security was lax. As he had suspected, disorder reigned in the aftermath of the battle. Quarters for fallen soldiers still stood empty among the ranks of the living. Lore tried a few tent-flaps until found one unoccupied and slipped in. Some careful rummaging turned up armour in the lowland style, with Rosen’s colours. He pulled it on over his blacks as the first light touched the sky, then curled up on the dead soldier’s bed to catch as much sleep as he could before things got interesting. 

He started the first day by laying low and thinking about what to burn down. The camp of the hangers on was a ramshackle affair. A firetrap waiting to happen.

In particular there was a concentrated number of tents and some wooden lean-tos set up in a corner close to the juncture of Brail and Rosen’s soldiers. It was a place with a lot of traffic, several open fires, and what seemed to Lore a roaring business in alcohol and sex. The problem was that is was active at almost all hours of the night, so it would be difficult to get a good blaze going without anyone noticing.

Once he’d decided on the spot, Lore spent time surreptitiously hoarding lamp oil. The attitude of the army was subdued, and few people spoke to him. Lore collected daily passwords easily by following other men in and out of camp. No one expressed suspicion. They knew Ira had been hit hard, and were not worried about retaliation.

But beyond setting a fire, there was a new puzzle Lore wanted to solve before he reported back to Ira. Who had sent the night attackers? What had they reported? And would they try again?

Getting answers was an interesting problem. Lore had not seen the faces of any of Ira’s attackers – they had been covered with black cloth, as was customary. But they had _all_ had a chance to see his face – well, all except the one he’d thrown his blanket over, and that one was dead. There was a good chance they would know him on sight, already knew his name, and had reported it to Tavish or one of his generals. Lore silently cursed himself for his own weakness. He shouldn’t have let Ira take care of him like that. Should have had the presence of mind to make it back to his own bed. Ira had no way of knowing the complications of the situation he’d put Lore in. But in allowing himself to be vulnerable to Ira, Lore had given the enemy information they could use against him.

An additional complication was the fact that most of the higher ups in Tavish’s camp knew him. Not only would it would be difficult to infiltrate with open disguise, but if they heard that a blonde-haired assassin had been found in the bed of the enemy camp general, there were several people who would be able to guess without too much trouble that it was Lore.

Lore had not exactly left Tavish’s camp with subtlety. The story was fairly well-known, even down the lower ranks. Brail’s “relationship” with Lore’s brother had been where all the trouble had started. It was precisely the attempt to keep assassins in his bed that had ended Lore’s contract with Brail so abruptly. The nature of Lore’s disagreement with Brail was an open secret in Tavish’s army. In the lead-up and its aftermath, Brail had worked hard to make Lore’s supposed sexual preferences a matter of public gossip. So the part about being in bed with a general would be sure to ring a few bells.

Lore gritted his teeth and tried not to think about the past. Tavish and his people wouldn’t know that Ira hadn’t meant anything by sharing his bed. They had no notion of Cairnish custom – or the fact that Cairnish would give each other the shirts off each others’ backs without thinking twice. In the north sharing a bed was just sharing a bed. Ira had no way of guessing the irony of the situation he had put Lore in.

The warlord had just been looking after him, like he would anyone else. Lore might have resisted it if he hadn’t been sleep-deprived and useless. He was alarmed to find that he remembered very little of the time before Ira had finally let him close his eyes.

The whole situations was ridiculous. Who would have guessed Ira would be so careful with him? He remembered the feeling of Ira’s muscular body next to him on the bed, and the feeling of his breath rising and falling.

Lore bit his lip and tried not to think about the way that Ira’s breath had caught when he’d touched him. He needed to forget about the way that that tiny noise had made him feel. How much he wanted to make Ira respond again, and spent long moments thinking about what that might be like even as six attackers made their way into the tent.

No, he couldn’t dwell on it. Besides, the idiot warlord had nearly gotten them both killed by giving them away too early when he’d tensed up at the last second.

Lore shook his head and focused on the task at hand.

He began his time in Tavish’s camp in the relative safety of Rosen’s soldiers, who existed on the periphery and had not interacted either Lore or his brother during their time working for Brail and Tavish.

But Rosen was dull and never invited to any of the interesting meetings. He told his captains nothing anyway. Flay and Fell proved almost equally useless, although through their soldiers Lore learned that neither employed assassins, and that both were utterly loyal to Brail.

So on the second day Lore spent his time wandering between cookfires in Merk’s camp – a much more risky endeavour. He saw few people he knew among the lower ranks, which was lucky.

Eventually he found a friendly fire where men were sitting around repairing harness close enough to the officers’ quarters that he could watch comings and goings. Messengers, officers, assassins. Everyone spoke quietly and cautiously, which Lore thought was natural considering the recent tensions between Merk and Brail.

Eventually Lore realized that Merk’s security was tight – tighter even than Brail’s. His watchmen kept everyone away from the tents, and they looked alert and dangerous. Merk was clearly nervous, and Lore thought it wouldn’t be prudent to try to sneak up on the general now. Merk might react badly.

Instead, on the second night of his stay, Lore moved on to Brail’s portion of the camp. He might as well get to the heart of the matter.

Brail’s camp was larger and more spread out than the others. Although security was good, the night was dark and moonless and Lore very, very good at staying out of sight.

He found a place between two watchmen where he could advance on the large central structure where Brail both lived and held his meetings. Carefully he pulled up the outer wall of the tent, wedging himself between the outer and inner layers. He could hear muffled voices inside and, moving very carefully, pushed aside insulation until he had a clearer place to listen.

Inside he heard Brail’s voice. It was a voice he knew well, and the sound of it never failed to make his stomach tighten with anxiety. He did not have good memories of that voice.

Brail was speaking with two of his generals, both of whom Lore remembered well. They were talking about supplies.

“As the snow gets deeper its going to get more difficult to get the wagons in,” one of the generals was saying.

“And last time we were short, the men nearly revolted,” grumbled Brail. “We will ask for additional supplies to be sent with the next load and that will help see us through.”

“When we move on Cairn we will need to extend the supply line, and the pass will make us vulnerable to attack. The bitch queen has allies all through these god-forsaken hills.” This from the third. Lore’s ears perked up at talk of movement on Cairn. Were they planning another attack on the road?

“That’s true,” Brail conceded. “It will be a more difficult matter than Abosa. We will have to lave troops along the way to keep the way clear.”

“These are worries for the future.” It was the first man again.

“For now we need to think about how to mop up the warlord. We’ve given them time to lick their wounds. I think that was a mistake.”

Brail grumbled. “Nothing we can do about it now. If those useless pawns of Tavish’s had done their job and killed Rov’s dog we would be laughing.”

So the night attack had been Tavish’s doing. There was brief silence in the room.

“Interesting about the assassin and the warlord, though.” This was Brail. Lore tensed. “I’m sure we can use that somehow.” His tone was thoughtful. It made Lore’s skin crawl.

“Maybe,” said the first man, clearly the practical one, “but for now we need to make sure the next supply wagon comes in, and that Tavish doesn’t do anything foolish until we can figure out what to do about the warlord and the remains of his army.”

“That man is too impatient,” growled Brail. This was an accurate complaint in Lore’s experience. “The wagons should arrive in two days. After that the men will be well fed and well rested, and we’ll sweep in and crush the fool.”

They have something Ira doesn’t, Lore thought suddenly. They were too confident about their ability to take the camp. But whatever it was, they were finished talking about it. There was the sound of shuffling as the generals stood, and the conversation turned to more immediate matters.

Lore took the opportunity to let himself out, while there were noises to cover his movements. Then he made his way stealthy back to his cold tent.

He didn’t allow himself to think about the consequences of what he’d heard until he was safely in his bed. Then he curled up and tried to catch a few hours of sleep before going out for more oil. They had something Ira didn’t know about. Something that guaranteed them victory. This was bad.

~*~

Lore didn’t want to risk getting trapped in a wall somewhere at the time he was supposed to meet Ira, so he didn’t have much to do after dark fell until the appointed hour.

He wanted to sleep, but he was restless and anxious. It made him deeply uncomfortable that Brail knew he was here in the valley, even if he did not yet suspect how close he was. It made Lore’s skin crawl. He felt like the general’s beady eyes were on him, watching him, waiting for a moment of weakness.

The general’s words (“use that somehow…”) were the most unsettling of all. Brail was expert at using people against each other. It was how he held control. It was how he had controlled Lore, in the end, until…

Lore didn’t like thinking about it.

But the memories were coming back more and more frequently, strong and sharp and raw. They stirred up uncertainty in him.

He checked his stash of oil in its snow bank near the horse lines and curled up in a pile of hay to snatch a few hours of sleep. Someone had taken down the tent he’d been sleeping in during the day, and he’d been unable to find another one. It was cold and uncomfortable outside, and his shoulder hurt.

Lore found himself suddenly longing for the simple pleasures of Ira’s tent and its comforts. Being the general’s retainer had its benefits. It didn’t help that his instincts were screaming at him to leave. It would be easy, tonight, to join Miko’s forces following the fire he was going to set. He could be back with Ira, with that well-ordered and disciplined camp, by morning. There he would have to deal with only Ira’s perfectly healthy low-grade suspicion (mixed, lately, with that strange companionability) rather than Brail’s full-blown manipulative conniving. And there was the hotspring. And Yael, who would laugh with him and share all her gossip…

He was being a coward. Now was his chance to accomplish his goals. He was close to something big, he could feel it. Given a little more time, he could figure out what Brail and Tavish were planning and bring back something useful. He hadn’t liked their confidence. It wreaked of something crucial.

When the time finally came to send his message, Lore climbed up onto the roof of the privy, which is where he stood to communicate with Ira. It was high enough and quiet enough that there was no one around to see him. Yet it was still within the borders of the camp so that he wouldn’t have to answer uncomfortable questions about his whereabouts. No one looked over at the privy if they could help it.

Using the lantern, he told Ira about the supply wagon and told him the fire would be set on the same night supplies were scheduled to come in. Then he flashed,

_Tavish behind night attack_. _Major offence coming soon. More information coming._ He knew this was vague and unhelpful, but couldn’t be more specific.

Once the message was finished, he stared off into the darkness across the valley for a long time. Although there was no sign of him, Lore knew Ira was out there, looking back. The thought gave him a strange sense comfort. Surrounded by the danger and complexity of life in Tavish’s camp, with all its horrors and bad memories, it was deeply grounding to know that people like Ira existed. There was a person in the world who cared for his queen and his friends and his hearth, and protected them with conviction and without duplicity. That person didn’t trust Lore very much, but Lore couldn’t even blame him. He was of Tavish’s world – a world of politics and back-stabbing and attempts at power. But despite that distrust he had sewn his wounds and shared his bed and worried about Lore. It was something the assassin had not experienced for a long time. Since his brother had died.

After a long time spent staring out into the darkness, Lore finally came down from the privy and went back to work.

He went first into the camp of the hangers’ on and into the bright lights of the ramshackle structure he was going to burn down.

Time to do some reconnaissance.

The structure was a combination of tents and wooden lean-tos which had been connected to share warmth and keep people out of the snow. The tents and structures nearby housed all the people who followed Tavish’s army – blacksmiths and cobblers and washerwomen. This one was reserved primarily for those of the less desirable nature. There were several purveyors of hard alcohols and, in the back, a collection of small comfortable rooms where a soldier could bring a companion for a small fee, or arrange to meet someone pretty and young in exchange for a more substantial price.

Lore entered cautiously through one of the structure’s main entrances. The interior was dimly lit and packed with people. The noise was a dull roar, and the bodies were packed in so tightly he had to squeeze between them.

As he passed by a table where three soldiers were lolling about, clearly drunk, he picked up empty cup and slipped it into his sleeve. When no one was looking he used a small flask to fill the cup carefully with water. He brought this with him as he sidled unsteadily up to a group of men in Brail’s colours where they sat within the warm halo of a fire, talking and laughing.

He was dressed like Rosen’s man, so they eyed him distrustfully at first, but his quick smile and clever tongue saw them warm to him rapidly and soon he had them swapping stories about the conquest in Abosa, the follies of their companions, the dramas of their superiors.

They were talking about Brail, for whom they held a deep respect and fear, when one of them leaned over and said conspiratorially, “Some say Brail took an assassin for a lover.”

Lore worked hard to keep himself from responding noticeably, but felt himself rock back suddenly on his heels. He had been poking for information, but somehow he not been prepared for this conversation.

Another man grunted in confirmation, staring into the fire. “And when he betrayed him, he had him killed. I heard that too. It was that whole affair at the end of the Abosa campaign.”

“A lot of people ended up with their heads on pikes,” contributed a third.

“What happened?” Lore managed, keeping the strain from his voice.

“There was an attempted coup. Kell, that sneaky bastard, tried to have Tavish killed. Brail stepped in and saved him. Afterward they found a whole plot. A lot of people were tried and killed.”

“I heard the assassin worked for Tavish and betrayed him for Kell,” the first man said. “and that’s why he had him killed.”

“I heard he tried to threaten Brail,” said another.

“I heard he took another lover, and was jealous”

“I heard he killed Brail’s son,”

“No, that was another one…”

The theories spiralled rapidly into the realm of half-understood gossip. None of them were true. Lore gritted his teeth and tried to steer the conversation back to useful territory.

“Does Brail still employ assassins?” He asked, more abruptly than he’d intended.

Six sets of suspicious eyes suddenly swivelled on to him.

“What’s it to you?” snarled the first man.

So much for that. Disgusted, Lore gave up. He retreated from the conversation as soon as he politely could, feigning drunkenness.

As he moved through the crowd to try his luck somewhere else, someone grabbed his arm just below his bandages. Lore tried not to flinch in pain, but the stranger’s firm grip made him spill his water, and he cursed under his breath.

The man was in Kell’s colours and he leered at Lore. Lore had seen that expression before, and he didn’t like it. He raised an eyebrow and looked the stranger up and down.

“Do I know you?”

His assailant was a big man, and heavily muscled. He gave a jerk, pulling Lore towards him roughly. Lore, surprised, let his cup drop to the floor. Lore could smell alcohol on his breath.

“No,” said the stranger huskily, “would you like to?”

Not this. Not now. In the aftermath of all the memories he’d been working hard to surpress, Lore did not have the patience for it. He tried to push away and realized he couldn’t. The man’s grip was too tight. This was not good…

“Not really,” he replied as politely as he could manage, trying to put some space between himself and the other.

“You’re much too pretty to be walking around here on your own,” the man growled. He had leaned in, inches from Lore’s face, and his eyes were hungry. Lore felt the man’s other hand reaching around behind him, caressing his lower back.

Trapping him.

Out of nowhere, Lore suddenly remembered a trick Yael had taught him. He stomped down with one foot, twisted with his body, and grabbed his attacker’s wrist with his free hand. Then he kicked the man’s knees out from under him and watched him collapse to the dirty floor.

Around him, Lore heard shouts of anger.

Too bad. The man had friends.

So much for reconnaissance. He’d made a scene.

Before anyone could identify him, Lore melted into the crowd and got out of there. There was nothing to be gained here except pain, suspicion, and bad memories.

~*~

The next morning Lore spent a lot of time walking innocently around the rickety drinking tent, stashing lamp oil in sensitive and well-hidden areas. After last nights encounters, he didn’t even feel bad about it.

It was easy to be inconspicuous. There was not much movement there until later in the day, and nobody paid attention to hangers on.

When he was finished Lore slept in the hay for a few hours and then ate and gambled with some foot soldiers from Kell’s old contingent.

The air was cold, and Lore felt like he couldn’t get warm no matter what he did. He shivered all day and learned nothing interesting. The only consolation was that everyone else was shivering too. Winter was setting in with an icy grip. A thin layer of snow covered everything, and ice dripped from the eves of the tents.

Lore took some comfort in knowing that, somewhere to the south, Ira’s forces were taking out a supply wagon crucial for the continued morale of Tavish’s army. He wondered when the news would reach them, and how the soldiers would react.

At about 3 in the morning he set the liquor-seller’s tent on fire.

No one saw him, and he retreated to the safety of Rosen’s horse lines to watch the action. It didn’t take long to get going. Soon there were shouts of alarm spreading through the camp and Lore could see flames shooting high into the cold night air. Perhaps he had been a little overzealous with the oil…

The chaos reached its peak as soldiers flooded into the merchants’ camp. Some to loot, others to help with the fire as it started spreading to other tents.

Something exploded.

Lore sighed and looked longingly over his shoulder at the faint lights between the trees on the other side of the valley. It would have been a perfect time to make his escape. But he had made his decision to stay, and he knew it had been the right one.

Something was coming, and he had to be here to find out what it was.

Miko chose that moment to attack, and Lore actually jumped in surprise at the volume and proximity of Rov’s army as it emerged from the darkness. They swept down on the camp in a wave of thundering hooves and flashing blades, leaving a wake of devastation behind them. As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone again…and then the second wave came…and the third. Lore watched from his perch with extreme satisfaction.

When it was over he walked among the dead and picked up armour with Tavish’s colours. Dangerous as it might be was going to need to get close to Brail and Tavish if he wanted to learn their secrets. He hoped he wouldn’t be recognised.

~*~ 

The cleanup took most of the morning. The temperature had dropped, and cold flakes fell thickly from the sky as Lore dressed himself in dead men’s armour. He used soot to darken his hair. Then he wrapped his face in a thick scarf that hid his most obvious features. This, he thought sullenly, was the most redeeming feature of winter in the Cairnish mountains. Open disguise need not be so open.

On the other hand, any undercover work would be difficult today because of the potential for leaving tracks in the snow. Luckily, undercover was not what he had in mind.

There was a lot of movement within camp, so no one questioned Lore as he walked with purpose toward Tavish’s camp. There was a changing in the guards, and Lore intercepted one of the men headed to relieve a colleague on Tavish’s quarters.

“Change in plans, partner,” he said, “Boss heard you were up all night fighting the fire. Go back to bed. I’ve got this one.”

The guard eyed Lore suspiciously, but what Lore said about fighting fires was true. His eyes were bloodshot and skin still sooty.

“Pagoda...”

“Under pine,” replied Lore lazily. It was the day’s password. The guard relaxed, nodded tightly, turned back the way he had come. If Lore was lucky he would go straight to bed and not try to confirm anything with his boss. Under normal circumstances, Lore might have made the situation safer by actually convincing the captain to send him in the hapless man’s place, but the chance was too great that he would be recognised among anyone of rank among Tavish’s people. If not as Brail’s assassin hire then certainly as an old comrade who should by all rights be dead.

Lore made his way to his post at the door of Tavish’s tent, stuck his pike in the ground, and tried to blend into the background as only a guard on duty could.

He exchanged passwords with the men on either side of him. After that they barely looked at him. It was bitterly cold.

Some time around mid-morning, Tavish’s generals had got the situation under control sufficiently to meet with their commander. Tavish arrived first, stomping through the snow ahead of a small back of armed retainers, as was his paranoid habit. Lore, despite a lifetime of training, stiffened involuntarily when he saw them coming. Tavish had a scowl on his face that could have melted iron, and the men around him, from what Lore could see, wore a variety of expressions from worry to dark resignation. Some of them wore no expression at all. These were assassins. Lore knew, because at one time he had been among them.

There had been a few changes in the ranks since then, but Lore recognized at least two men. He kept his blue eyes shadowed under the brim of his helmet and his chin tucked into the folds of his scarf. Six months in the mountains, he thought, had washed way the give-away bronze of his coastal skin. And although he’d put some weight back on in Rov’s care, the hardships of the last week and a half had hollowed his cheeks and sharpened his jaw. In a pinch he hoped it would be enough to make him look different.

But no one looked at the guards and the party passed into the tent without comment.

Brail arrived a short time after. Then Merk and the rest, all with a small following. Inside the sound of voices rose and fell. Lore had sharp ears but he could only make out parts of the conversation. Presently, there was the banging of a fist on the table and Brail’s characteristic growl for silence.

Lore pulled down his scarf, exposing his ears to the cold. He had to hear this.

The first topic of conversation was the fire. Brail and Tavish both wasted a lot of time swearing about it, calling Rov a bitch queen and Ira a useless cur. Then Merk said in his calm voice,

“We were infiltrated. This seems clear.”

There was more growling and spitting. Then,

“Yes, the stashes of lamp oil that were left leave no doubt. This was done intentionally.” They had not all caught then. Too bad.

“No one found the perpetrator, I assume, or we’d have him strung up on a rack begging for mercy by now.” This from Tavish.

“Undoubtably a trained agent, lord.” Lore didn’t know who it was this time, but the deferential title made him think it might be one of Tavish’s own agent retainers.

“Well we knew the traitorous brother of Lark is in their camp,” Brail spit. “So the rumours have proved false about Cairn’s disdain for undercover tactics. Either that or the bitch got desperate.”

“Its very possible it was Lore that did it, lord,” said the mystery voice. “It has his style.” The observation chilled Lore to the core. Someone who knew him then. How well?

“No matter,” shouted Tavish, slamming a hand down on the table, “its done. The hangers’ on camp has proved too much of a liability. And they are expensive to feed. We must clear them out.”

No one was saying anything, Lore noticed, about the missing supply wagons. Lore wondered if Brail and Tavish were keeping it under wraps to avoid further dissent. There was brief silence following Tavish’s proposal, but eventually a chorus of reluctant agreement. Tavish’s generals knew to pick their battles, and although they would be as reluctant as anyone to lose their access to whores and alcohol, they also understood the value of running a tight ship. The kind of discipline Ira enjoyed within his own army was a distant dream here in Tavish’s camp.

After a brief silence, Brail growled “any word from Jerl?”

Tavish laughed. “Yes. There’s some good news, at least. He’s on his way north, sure enough. Through the Yavish passes. A messenger arrived yesterday saying he got through the border without being spotted. Nothing but sheep herders out there.”

Lore’s stomach dropped. The Yavish passes, he knew, were along the same mountain ranges far to the east. Jerl he didn’t know. He was poorly versed in the small kings and their alpine domains. Too much time watching pretty warlords and not enough time studying geography. He silently cursed his own oversight. Whoever he was, Tavish knew him and apparently had made an ally of him. Lore wondered what the price of betraying the Cairnish queen might have been. He wondered how many soldiers Jerl had at his command. He wondered how many it would take to destroy the skeleton force they’d left at Cairn.

“They’ll be at Cairn’s gates before the month is up,” Brail estimated, “and the dog none the wiser. Once we mop up this mess we can join him.”

“Hopefully before the heavy snow falls.”

Lore’s heart was beating rapidly in his chest.

This was bad. This was very very very bad.

He should have gotten closer to Brail sooner. If he had, he would have known. Ira would have known. They could have….Lore didn’t know what they could have done.

Ira needed to know as soon as possible. That was certain.

“The only way is to draw them out,” Merk again. “They are too strong in their camp. We should make another move on the pass.”

“The forces are exhausted,” Brail said, “it will be difficult to persuade them make the same maneuver again.”

“What happened to the supply wagons from Abosa?” Tavish asked irritably. There it is, thought Lore. There was an awkward silence.

“We’ve had no word,” said Brail, “its possible there was another ambush.”

Lore tried to feel smug, but it was difficult with the thought of an unknown number of soldiers descending on Cairn.

Tavish swore loudly and said some extremely unfavourable things about Ira and his character.

“Merk’s right,” this from Fell. A risky move, agreeing with Merk. “Attacking the camp would be madness. But maybe there’s another way of drawing them out.”

“What are you thinking?” Growled Brail. His tone was dangerous.

“Fake another fire, maybe,” ventured Fell, wandering nervously into uncertain territory, “or strike camp like we’re headed east.”

Thoughtful silence followed. One of the voices Lore didn’t know spoke up next, so quiet he could barely hear it.

“There is potential to the general’s idea,” the voice said presently. “Perhaps a riot would be better.”

“What to do you mean?” Brail growled.

“I mean that Cairn’s warlord knows we’ve lost supplies, but he doesn’t know how badly it has hit us. We could feed the army most of the rest of our supplies – it would be risky, but we could do it – and then stage a rebellion among the men. It would be an opportunity they could not afford to ignore.”

Another thoughtful silence. Then Tavish said, “it would be better if we could get word to Rov’s dog that there was unrest in the camp. Really sell it.”

There was a tactful pause as the mystery voice decided how to respond. “I don’t believe there is a reason to oversell it, my lord,” came the polite answer. “As repulsive as he is, the man is deeply suspicious by nature. Planting information might tip him off that it’s a ruse.” They knew Ira alright. Lore wondered if they had someone planted close to him.

There was tense silence as everyone in the tent waited to see if Tavish would lose his temper.

“Hm. Perhaps,” came the grudging answer, “but the rest of the plan is good.”

There were relieved murmurs of agreement.

“I will think on it,” Tavish said, “for now you should return to your posts and make plans for how this might be carried out. We will meet again at dusk.”

Lore casually pulled his scarf back up over his ears and tipped his helmet over his eyes as the sound of shuffling indicated the imminent exit of Tavish’s general core. His heart was still beating fast. He needed to get this information to Ira. But it would be difficult to leave camp now. He could send an emergency message, but he worried it was too complicated to convey. He also feared that Ira wouldn’t believe him. He knew the warlord still didn’t trust him, even after everything.

He watched the retreating backs of the generals and decided he would wait and see if an opportunity to leave camp up tonight. If it didn’t, he would send an emergency message. But before that, he needed to listen to this evening meeting and see if he could pick up any more details.

The rest of his watch was torture. He stood, cold and heartsick, for several hours until one of Tavish’s soldiers finally relieved him. He went to the horse lines and curled up in the hay, trying to catch a few hours sleep before dusk. But as exhausted as he was, sleep wouldn’t come. He kept thinking about the soldiers in the east, headed toward Cairn, and Rov none the wiser. He had to get back. He had to tell Ira.

~*~

Lore didn’t want to try his luck with the same trick with the guards. For the evening shift he found the soldier scheduled for duty and followed him to the cookfires. While picking up his own bowl of rations, accidently bumped into his target while deftly dumping a liberal dose of tranquilizer into his meal.

It was snowing heavily in the gathering darkness, and even in the well-tracked camp Lore left footprints in the fresh powder as he headed to take up the unconscious guard’s post at Tavish’s tent. It would be impossible to leave tonight without being obvious.

He was frowning to himself, deep in thought, when someone stepped into stride with him.

Lore tugged his helmet down over his eyes, but he knew it was too late.

“Hello friend,” it was the smooth mystery voice from the morning. Lore didn’t know him. But somehow, he knew Lore. Lore grunted in response and kept walking, but veered right, off the path toward Tavish.

“I thought you had guard duty,” said the voice, and Ira, suddenly, became aware of a blade being held against his ribs. He stopped moving.

He thought about trying to play the part of the guard a little longer, but knew it was useless. He turned and took a good look at the assassin. Lore didn’t recognise him. He was as tall as Lore, but with the cast of one of the lowlanders from around Abosa. There was dark hair poking out from under his wraps, and he had clear brown eyes.

“Do I know you?” he asked.

“You do now,” said the other. “come on. Lets see what Brail thinks of you.”

Lore’s stomach twisted. Not Brail. Anyone but Brail. Tavish would be better…

The other indicated that Lore should keep walking with a gesture. He did, for about ten steps, and then abruptly turned, shoving at the other man to put some space between them, and made to sprint.

But the lowlander was faster, and he grabbed Lore’s arm and twisted it behind him. Lore flinched as he felt the healing wound on his shoulder tear open.

“Nice try, but that’s not going to fly here.”

Lore said nothing, and the lowlander marched him to Tavish’s tent, pulled back the flap, and pushed him inside.

At the fire, Brail stood up abruptly. He had apparently arrived for the evening’s meeting before the other generals, and he and Tavish had been deep in conversation. It was good that Tavish was there, at least. It meant Lore had a chance of surviving, if he could play them off each other.

Lore felt panic rising in him as his took in Brail’s expression. It was the first time he had faced the man since…the last time. And that hadn’t ended well.

“What is this?” Brail growled. Behind him, Tavish stood too, staring.

From behind him, Lore’s captor pulled off Lore’s stolen helmet, leaving his face exposed. His blonde hair was still blackened, but Lore knew that this would not fool Brail, who knew his face too well. Besides, he had seen the same trick before.

“Is he familiar to you?” The assassin asked Brail.

Lore almost laughed at the question. Familiar was an understatement.

Brail’s eyes widened in shock. Behind him, Tavish swore.

“Hi Brail,” said Lore as lightly as he could manage, “I’m back.”

For a moment there was stunned silence.

“Like hell you are!” Brail roared in rage and threw himself at Lore. Lore’s captor had clearly not been prepared for this reaction, and pulled back in surprise.

This was all the opportunity Lore needed.

He dropped like a stone, kicking backwards with one leg and feeling his boots connect with the other assassin’s knees. At the same moment Brail collided with his employee, carried by the momentum of his own charge. Lore rolled out of the way, ripped back the flap of the tent, and began to run.

Behind him, shouts were going up. But Lore was fast and had surprise on his side. He careened around tents under the heavily falling snow, scattered a group of soldiers eating dinner around a cookfire, passed the horse lines, and was through the watchmen at the edge of camp before they could register his presence.

It helped that they were looking for people coming _in_ sneakily rather than leaving at top speed, he thought.

But pursuit was not far behind, and he could hear the protesting squeals of horses being rapidly saddled.

The snow was falling thickly.

Lore headed straight South, knowing that this was the steepest and most difficult terrain to follow on horseback. As he careened down the mountain, he heard the sound of pursuit getting slightly fainter, and knew he was gaining ground. He ran recklessly, jumping logs and sliding down rocky races, half covered in snow. He knew he was leaving a trail to follow, but there was nothing he could do about it.

About two kilometers south, fortune smiled on him. He startled a small herd of deer who had bedded down for the night among the grass and trees. As he crashed into their midst they bolted in all directions, leaving a chaotic splatter of snowy imprints.

He took advantage of the confusing collection of footprints to turn abruptly west. It would fool them for a little while, he knew, but not for long. He could hear the sound of horses clattering down the southern slope, maybe half a kilometre behind him.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Lore hit the cold mountain creek that ran out of the valley from Ira’s camp. He was momentarily surprised to note that the stream hooked so far east after falling from the plateau near the place where it merged with the spring. The water was mercifully open, moving slowly and sluggishly in the cold. Here, several kilometres below the camp, it had lost all the warmth from the hot spring. Lore hesitated only a moment before he stumbled down the steep washed-out banks in an avalanche of dirty snow.

He found himself up to his knees in icy water. The cold pushed the breath from his lungs, and he gasped in surprise.

Instead of heading north, toward Ira’s camp he turned south again and began to run, carefully as he could over slippery rocks. They would not expect him to turn south. In this cold, it was certain death, especially for a southerner.

Lore, as he had done so many months ago, was counting on Brail’s underestimation of him to save his life.

He splashed south, further and further, until he found a place where snow falling from the trees had left deep imprints in the snow. Carefully, taking his time now that pursuit had fallen away, he pulled himself out of the water and up the bank.

He was shivering. He needed to get dry and warm fast, or risk hypothermia.

The trees were thicker here, and not so much snow had made it to the ground under their canopy. Lore slowed to a walk, picking his way carefully through the dark forest. He kept his ears pricked for sounds of pursuit, but the forest was quiet. There was a lot of deadfall, although winter had killed off the underbrush that would make this landscape impassable in the summer. At this time of year he could make good time.

Lore shivered and rubbed his arms as he walked. The water from the creek had already frozen on his clothing. He needed to get out of his clothes and close to a fire as soon as possible.

If they had fallen for his ruse, now the only danger was the cold. He had to keep moving or freeze to death out here. Exhausted, and shivering, he turned himself north – towards warmth and sleep and clarity. Towards Ira.

~*~ 

Ira startled into wakefulness with the instincts of a man who had nearly been killed in a night attack only a few nights before. Someone was outside his tent.

But attackers do not politely announce their presence, and Ira unclenched his hands from the hilt of his broadsword and tried to force his heartrate back down. He pulled himself out from under his covers and swung bare feet to the tent floor.

“I’m awake.” He wondered what time it was. It did not feel like he had been asleep very long.

Vera entered, stumbling under the weight of a man who was leaning heavily on her shoulder.

“He just showed up at the guard line,” she explained, sounding distressed. “He said to come to you.”

Ira looked closer at weakened stranger. He was dressed in Tavish’s colours and covered in snow and ice.

“What…who is..”

The man lifted his head and Ira realized with a start that it was Lore.

He didn’t bother to hide his surprise. The assassin’s hair had been coloured black, but the soot had begun to run in the moisture from the snow, darkening his cheeks. His eyes were hooded and sleepy. His lips a very faint shade blue.

Ira stepped toward the assassin and caught him as he fell forward. His clothing was wet, but he wasn’t shivering. Bad sign.

“Help me,” Ira said, “we need to get this off him and get him by the fire.” Vera obliged, helping Ira to carefully lower the assassin to the floor beside the fire, stoke up the flames, and begin pulling off his armour.

Lore said Ira’s name faintly, but nothing more. He was hypothermic, or close to it.

The warlord and his watchwoman worked silently for a few minutes, and then Vera asked hesitantly

“Is it..?”

“Yes,” said Ira irritably, “my ‘retainer.’ The one who sent us messages in the night.”

Vera, aware that she had already been too curious, declined to ask any more questions, instead helping Ira to pull off Lore’s soaking boots and socks. Ira pulled off the wet bandage on Lore’s shoulder and checked the stab wound. It looked like it had been healing well before he had re-opened it. Ira left it open rather than re-wrap it. It was no longer bleeding.

Lore began to revive a little once his wet clothing had come off. Ira brought blankets still warm from his body from his own bed and wrapped the assassin in them.

At this, Lore began to shake.

“Ira,” Lore whispered, “I have to tell you…” his voice was weak and tense with the effort of keeping his teeth chattering. He was trying to sit up.

“Vera,” said Ira abruptly, not taking his eyes off Lore, “go wake Miko. Tell her something has happened and to be ready to move. Then go back to your post. I’ll summon you if there’s anything else.”

Vera nodded and slipped out of the tent. With her gone, Ira helped Lore sit and then lowered his body to the ground behind the shivering assassin, wrapping him in his arms and pulling him back against his chest in a hug.

If pressed, he would not have been able to say why he waited for Vera to leave before lending Lore his body heat. It felt intimate and protective – something a brother would do, or a father. Or a lover. He had not yet admitted the depth of his caring for the assassin, even to himself. All he knew was that he was glad to see Lore, and that wrapping him in his arms felt right.

Lore sucked in a startled breath at the contact but didn’t object. Ira could feel the cold seeping out of Lore’s skin through the blanket, feeling him shake. He would be fine once he warmed. He had been close to hypothermic, but was coming back quickly.

With the assassin so close it was easy to lean over him. Ira placed his mouth next to Lore’s ear. “Tell me,” he ordered softly.

“They’ve played us,” Lore said, and the words began to spill out. He told Ira what he had learned and how it had ended. As he spoke, his shivering began to grow less severe and his voice became less strained.

When he had finished he said, “I’m sorry warlord. I should have been closer to Brail from the beginning. Then I might have known.”

Ira said nothing. In his mind he was already weighing the possibilities. The possibilities of intersecting Jerl. The possibilities of splitting his army. The possibilities of Rov being able to hold Cairn with her skeleton force.

The possibility that Lore was lying to him, even as he held him in his arms, and that this was a way to divide Rov’s forces so that Tavish and Brail could finish them off and take the pass.

He had been so certain of Lore’s traitorousness before. But the consistency of his information and the lengths he had gone to to keep Ira alive over the last few weeks had begun to make him wonder if his initial instinct had been wrong.

Self-doubt was a feeling utterly foreign to Ira. It made him deeply uncomfortable. 

He sat silently, holding Lore against his body, for a long time. Gradually the assassin’s normal colour returned, he became more alert, and his breathing became more regular. He still shivered, but not as violently as before. Ira reached a decision.

“Come with me.”

He abruptly stood up, dislodging the assassin from his arms, who rolled over and curled more tightly into a ball. Ira began pulling on boots and cloak, and when the assassin didn’t move he added,

“I’m serious. Lets go.”

Lore rolled slowly and stiffly to his feet, holding Ira’s blanket around his waist. Ira passed him cotton trousers and a wool cloak and waited while the assassin sluggishly pulled them on. Then Ira pushed back the tent door and led the way out into the darkness. Lore followed slowly, reluctant to leave warm furs and fire. But Ira was taking him to something better – the hot spring.

They crossed the quiet camp without speaking and found the deep steaming pools empty when they arrived. Steam curled lazily into the night, the silence broken only by the quiet gurgle of running water. The rocky landscape dropped naturally into a pool, which had been deepened with the addition of a rock wall. Large flat boulders at the edge of the water made an easy entry point.

Ira looked over at Lore and saw him staring at the warm water longingly. The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile.

“Get in,” he said. His voice was soft but had the firmness of an order.

Lore, moving stiffly, pulled off the cloak and trousers, leaving them in an untidy heap. He was unselfconscious, but his slender body began to shiver again as olive skin met biting air. Ira followed more slowly, keeping a watchful eye on the assassin. In case he relapsed, he told himself. Not because he wanted to rake his eyes over the other man’s naked body.

As Lore slipped into the water with a sigh, it was Ira’s turn to undress. He took a quick look at the assassin to make sure he wasn’t looking – the assassin had his back to Ira. Then he folded his clothing neatly at the side of the pool. He tucked his dagger underneath where it couldn’t be seen, within easy reach on the rocks. Only then did he lower himself into the water.

Ira sunk slowly to his chin as Lore scrubbed his face and hair, ridding himself of the soot and the memories of Tavish’s camp. Then, carried by his own buoyancy, he floated on his back, staring up silently at the rising steam, letting warm water wash over his body, restoring feeling and life.

Ira watched him, his heart beating hard.

Eventually, he knew, he was going to have to give up trying to guess at Lore’s loyalties. Carrying around this suspicion all the time was exhausting. Only time would tell him whether the assassin was playing with him or not. But Ira’s gut was telling him something, and he knew it would be foolish to ignore. It was time to confirm at least one theory about Lore. 

After a long while Lore finally righted himself, pushing wet blonde hair out of his eyes and meeting Ira’s gaze. He looked almost himself again, with shadows playing over his body and darkening half of his face.

He approached Ira slowly from the centre of the pool, the water just above his waist. Ira tried hard not think about how beautiful he looked, all lean hard muscle and smooth skin dripping with steaming water. He had a look in his eye – one Ira had seen over the fire a few times. Playfulness, teasing.

Ira rose to his feet as Lore came closer, suddenly certain about his guess. The assassin stopped an arms length away, appraising Ira openly, a playful smile on his fine lips.

Ira made the first move. He wanted to unsettle that certainty. He reached out, grabbed a wrist, and pulled Lore in.

This was not something that could be misinterpreted. They were too close for it to have been a platonic gesture. Lore did not resist, but Ira was satisfied to see that the playful smile had disappeared. He hadn’t expected Ira to make the first move, and he was off balance. Good. The blue eyes lowered so Ira could just see pale lashes against olive skin. Both of them were breathing shallowly, excited by their proximity. Ira took one hand and put it gently under Lore’s chin, tipping his face up so that their eyes met.

The expression on Lore’s face almost undid Ira. He saw a quick flicker of emotions: Uncertainty, confusion, hope. It was a confirmation that Ira had read him correctly. He felt warmth spread through him at the thought. Lore had wanted this – had wanted _him_. Ira bit his lip and felt the hand on Lore’s chin quiver.

Ira held himself back as long as he could bear, watching the assassin’s face for a moment. Then bent to press his lips to Lore’s. It was excoriating to hold himself back, but he forced himself to be gentle. He felt the other’s body tense, and wondered for a second if he’d made a mistake. Had he misinterpreted the assassin after all?

But a moment later, Lore softened into him and began to kiss him back. Lore, unlike Ira, seemed to feel no need to be restrained. He made a soft needy noise, and his hand came up to grasp Ira’s forearm and his fingers bit hard into the warlord’s muscle. Ira’s heart beat hard in his chest as the assassin took over, pressing his body against the warlord’s, warm and hungry. Ira gasped as the sudden contact sent shocks through his body. It was like nothing Ira had felt before, and he struggled to remain composed. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to push Lore’s lithe, wet body against the rock behind him and…

No. He had to keep control.

Ira’s free hand slipped under his folded clothing and came up with the blade. The moment was instantly broken.

Lore sucked in a startled breath as he felt the cold edge of Ira’s knife press against the soft flesh of his bare stomach. Ira felt the assassin’s harsh intake of breath on his lips and it took enormous force of will to let Lore pull back. As he did, Ira’s free hand gripped Lore hard, preventing escape.

Ira didn’t know it, but it was a shocking repetition of the way Lore had been caught less than twelve hours before by Brail’s hired killer. Ira’s eyes were open, so he was able to watch the surprise come over Lore’s face.

They locked gazes, and Ira registered….something (hurt? Betrayal?) on the assassin’s face Then he watched as Lore’s expression abruptly closed off. This is what betrayal feels like, he thought. The assassin needs to know I’m not so easily fooled.

“Lore,” Ira said softly. His voice sounded almost apologetic.

“Tonight I am going to split my army. I will send Miko with three quarters of Rov’s soldiers to cut of Jerl and protect Cairn.” Ira took a deep breath, trying to regain the composure he’d lost and put conviction in his voice.

“If you’ve lied to me, and all of this is in vain, I will hunt you down and I will kill you.”

Their faces were inches apart. Ira’s lips still tingled from Lore’s touch, and his whole body ached. Lore pulled abruptly back and away. Ira let him go.

The assassin’s expression was unreadable. He said nothing. A wall had been dropped between them, abruptly severing any ties that had been so carefully constructed with words and looks and touches over the weeks. Ira felt a pang that might have been regret. What would have happened if he’d acted on his desire? How far would Lore have gone? Ira knew with a deep certainty that none of what had just happened had been an act. But what did it mean?

Lore swung abruptly up out of the pool and pulled on his clothing without looking at Ira. He was fumbling a little, either out of weakness or anger. Ira noticed as he did that Lore’s shoulder as bleeding again, but before he could say anything the assassin was gone, slipping into the night and out of Ira’s reach.


	7. Chapter 7

Lore went to Yael, who was asleep and confused but opened her door to Lore when he came to her. He had no where else to go. She did not complain or push him to tell her what was wrong. She just accepted his presence, stoked the camp fire, and invited him to sit down. When she saw he was bleeding, she scolded him for opening his cut. Lore didn’t know if it was the comfortable friendship they had built on the road or the habitual unconditional fraternity in which all of Rov’s people held for each other that motivated her. He was grateful for it, and didn’t question it.

“You’ll be called up soon,” Lore told her, but could not expand when she asked how he knew. He closed his mouth into a tight line, and a companionable silence settled between them.

He was hurting and humiliated and angry. Ira had tricked him, and he hadn’t seen it coming. Lore had been just another mooning follower unable to resist the warlord’s charisma, and Ira had played Lore like a puppet. He had been an idiot to think Ira actually wanted him. The intimate touches, sharing his bed, the teasing smiles – those were just Ira being Ira. It was how he treated everyone, and it was the way that the Cairnish behaved every day. And yet _somehow_ Ira had known that Lore translated those moments differently, and had the foresight to use it against him. And Lore had let himself fall for it, like a complete fool.

The worst part was that his heart was still racing and his body still on fire and he couldn’t make it stop.

Lore knew he could never tell Yael any of this. Instead, he asked her to tell him about growing up in Cairn. He wanted a distraction. She eyed him, irritated by the deflection, but obliged him without protest

Soon she warmed to her topic, staring into the red embers of their little fire. She told him about her sisters, all of them beautiful and delicate and, Yael said, nothing like Yael herself. She talked for a long time, Lore listening carefully, about childhood in the mountains. Lore imagined snowy winters and playing in flowering alpine meadows, and long nights curled up before a smoking fire. When she had finished, she asked Lore if he had any siblings.

“I had a brother,” Lore said quietly after a time. 

“what happened?” Yael asked.

“Brail killed him.”

Yael was shocked into silence.

“So that’s why you turned up so conveniently last spring,” she managed eventually.

Lore nodded.

“what happened?” Yael asked.

“Brail was using me to blackmail him, and Lark got tired of it and tried to kill him.” This was the simple version of events. Yael seemed to sense this.

“It must have been bad if he went that far.” Lore nodded again.

“Brail was obsessed with him. He was jealous and possessive. He told him if he didn’t…” The revulsion was still too strong in Lore to say what Brail had wanted. “He would kill me if Lark didn’t agree to sleep with him. We became collateral for each other, then.”

Yael was horrified. “did you know what was happening?”

“No. Lark didn’t tell me. But I found out, and then I tried to kill Brail. Things sort of went downhill from there.” Lore remembered Lark’s face, wracked with hurt and shame. His own horror. His rage. Brail’s smile as he put his knife to Lark’s throat…

They had made him watch as they killed his brother, but Lore didn’t remember much of it. He supposed his mind had blocked it out. Yael was silent. Finally she said,

“I’m sorry, Lore.”

“I haven’t told anyone that,” he said. “Not even…” he almost said Ira’s name, but then the memory the hotspring flooded his mind again, filling him with his own shame. He fell silent.

“You were gone for a long time on the last mission,” Yael said. “What happened? Did Brail recognise you?” Lore knew by her tone that she was motivated by concern for him rather than any genuine curiosity about his operations, which both of them knew were off limits. Lore looked at her sidelong, teasing, and she realized how it had sounded.

“I don’t mean…you don’t have to…”

“No its ok. It doesn’t matter now. Yes, Brail recognised me. But I got out, and he doesn’t know what I know.”

Yael nodded, accepting this, then smiled wryly when Lore changed the subject, asking “what’s it like riding with Miko?”

“Insanity,” she said, and then she was off again, telling him stories, until the runners came calling her up and she had to go.

~*~

Ira smuggled two thousand soldiers out of the pass under the cover of darkness. It was feat he had never tried before, and hoped he would never have opportunity to again. The horses’ tack was silenced with cloth. Lights were forbidden. They moved, where possible, through the shadows of the trees. The falling snow would help disguise their shapes from watchers on the pass.

He set those who remained to work stoking fires and making sure that his camp of a hundred or so souls still looked like a camp bristling with weaponry and manpower, not depleted and desperate.

Ira and Lore both stayed behind with the covering force. Ira for the purposes of ruse. No one would believe the army was still there if the warlord suddenly disappeared. He made himself periodically visible on a ledge above the valley, mounted on a big white horse. He hoped it would be enough to keep Tavish at bay until Miko got out of the pass.

Lore stayed because he might be able to infiltrate again, once Tavish’s camp settled down following his escape. Lore knew that the moment Tavish caught on to Ira’s little ruse, it would be over. Their small force would have to move fast to get out of his way. But if there was an opportunity to get into the enemy camp, he might be able to stall that discovery a little longer. Or, at the very least, to warn them before Tavish struck.

The opportunity never arose. Tavish moved faster than either of them imagined. Perhaps watchers in the pass had seen Miko after all, perhaps their ruse had been too thin, or perhaps agents planted in Rov’s ranks had reported the situation.

Whatever it was, Tavish never even bothered to stage his fake riot. Instead he fed his soldiers and, on the second day after Miko’s departure, swept across the valley in force. Flanks closed in from the ridge in the north and the creekbed in the south. Ira’s stragglers were pinned against the low mountain and its hotspring at their back.

Lore fought in the ranks among the soldiers, dealing a disproportionate amount of death in the face of Tavish’s attack. He had hoped that Brail would be foolish enough to come within his reach, but the general stayed back behind the wall of his soldiers. Lore never even got close.

At some point, hours into the battle, he saw Ira go down under a swarm of soldiers in Brail’s colours. He was yelling and kicking and killing soldiers even as they overwhelmed him. Lore, unthinking, tried to run to him, but he was too late.

With Ira went the army.

It was as Lore had always known – Ira was the central strength and the central weakness to Cairnish discipline. The confirmation of his theory was little comfort to Lore as he was overwhelmed and thrown to the ground, his sword ripped from his fingers. They loved their warlord so much that without him they were lost.

Lore should know. He had fallen for him too.

~*~ 

Lore was included with the rest of prisoners as the survivors were rounded up and dragged back to Tavish’s camp. He kept head down as much as he could, hoping no one would recognize him. Escape would be a lot easier if they treated him like a regular soldier.

But Lore had no such luck. After they were shackled and placed under guard in Tavish’s camp, Brail himself walked the lines, forcing anyone who looked like he might be an assassin to turn and face him for examination.

He was kicking an injured man with blonde hair in the ribs when Lore stood up. “You can stop. I’m here.”

“Ah,” Brail smiled his oil smile, and Lore felt ice flood his veins.

“I thought so.”

Lore was disconnected from the line and brought, flanked on either side by expressionless assassin guards, to a makeshift wooden cell nearer to the heart of Brail’s camp, where there was a lot more manpower and special ways to chain Lore to the wall.

Ira, he supposed, would be kept somewhere similar. And maybe other hostages of Brail’s – members of his assassins’ families or defeated generals from his political enemies. This was where Brail kept the people he didn’t want to lose.

Lore was left to cool his heels for several hours. As dusk fell, Brail’s hired muscle came back for him and took him to Tavish’s tent. Tavish and Brail were both there waiting.

Lore’s guard kicked the back of his knees and Lore obligingly dropped to the floor, catching himself with shackled hands to keep himself from faceplanting.

Tavish was seated, and looked at him speculatively over folded hands. Brail stood at his leader’s shoulder, open hostility on his face. They were both watching him. Lore said nothing, waiting. They obviously wanted him for something.

“We’re having an argument,” Tavish said calmly, once Lore had collected himself. “I hope you can settle it for us.” This was not a question, so Lore continued to say nothing.

“How much would it take,” Tavish asked in the same tone, “for you to betray your new master?”

“Four thousand ingots,” said Lore instantly, but at the same time Brail said, “he has no price.”

There was awkward silence. Then Tavish turned to his general and said, elaborately, “see, Brail? I told you he could be bought.”

“He’s lying,” hissed Brail. “remember last time.”

“Last time the stakes were personal,” Tavish said, shrugging. Brail stared at his commander with frank disbelief.

“He called me lecherous skum,” Brail said slowly, as if talking to in infant, “and told me that all the wealth of Abosa’s castle was not worth more to him than the privilege of killing me personally.”

Silence greeted this. Lore winced. He had in fact said those words, almost exactly.

Tavish turned back to Lore. “Well,” he asked, “what of my general’s point? Have things changed, assassin?”

Lore blinked slowly, making eye contact with Brail. “No. That is still true,” he said cooly, and edge to his voice. Brail made a frustrated gesture,

“Then what did you…?” Lore interrupted him.

“I wouldn’t be working for the lecherous scum,” said Lore, “I’d be working for Tavish.”

Another silence as both men stared at him, Brail with utter disbelief, Tavish with calculated smugness.

“Good,” Tavish said eventually. “Four thousand ingots was it?”

“Forty-five hundred and I’ll refrain from taking advantage of my position to kill the lecherous skum.”

“Forty-five it outrageous. Forty-two.”

Lore raised an eyebrow.

“Is your general’s life really worth so little to you?”

“Forty-three, then.”

“Forty-five or nothing.”

Tavish rolled his eyes elaborately. Lore the sum was high, but within Tavish’s ability to pay. Tavish wouldn’t like it, but he could afford it.

“Half up front.” Lore added on a whim.

“A quarter up front. A quarter after you finish your first job. The rest at the end of the contract.” The contract, by custom, ended with the campaign. In this case, Lore knew that meant that the day that Cairn was overthrown. He tried not to think about it. Lore shrugged.

“Fine.”

Tavish sent someone away to get the payment. It was a hefty sum. More than Lore had ever earned for one contract - and his fees had never been cheap. As they waited for Lore’s money to show up, Brail fumed and railed. He called Tavish a fool, and Lore a traitor and a whore and worse. Tavish, like Rov, could take no hostage as security on the assassin. All he had was Lore’s word. Brail pointed all this out, but Tavish ignored him, looking pleased with himself.

Lore knew he was going to have to watch his back with Brail. It was unlikely that the general could not get away with killing him outright, but there were other ways to make Tavish’s newest pet die.

A messenger returned with a heavy bag. The assassin behind Lore uncuffed him, and the messenger dropped the sack into Lore’s outstretched hand. Lore unfolded from he knees to a squat, staying low but making himself mobile.

Then he opened his bag and counted its contents carefully. When he had finished, Tavish said:

“I trust you’re satisfied.”

Lore nodded.

“Good. I have a task for you. We need information from your old master, the warlord dog. You must help us get it from him.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” said Lore, truthfully. “I can try, but it may be difficult to know if what he says is real.”

“Lies,” hissed Brail triumphantly, “We know you spent your time there in his bed.”

Lore turned a frosty gaze on the general, and when he spoke his words came out like chips of ice.

“You of all people should know that sharing a bed guarantees nothing in terms of loyalty.”

Brail made to lunge at Lore and strike him, but the guard stepped in front of him, palm out. Unthreatening, but clear. Brail halted, eyes narrowed to slits in his rage. Lore regarded him calmly back from behind the shelter of Tavish’s hired muscle.

“I have another idea,” he said to Tavish, ignoring Brail. “I tell him the truth. Ira is a man of strict fealty. He is unlikely to give away anything, even on the brink of death, so you are intelligent to try to trick him.”Tavish looked pleased at the complement, which Lore had hoped he would.

“The other way is to offer protection to someone he loved. But we can try that if the first way fails.”

“What is your plan, then?”

“I tell him the truth, but also pretend I know the answer to your questions. It would not be unreasonable considering the time I spent in his camp. Hopefully I can get him to give away the details we need. What do you need to know?”

“Two things, primarily,” said Tavish.“First, where he has stationed ambushes on the route. Second, whether he sent his forces to intercept Jerl or to defend Cairn.”

Lore reeled at the effectiveness of Ira’s play and Miko’s escape. They hadn’t even found the army yet. Fifteen hundred soldiers, vanished like smoke. It must be terrifying.

Lore thought about it carefully, planning the words he might use. It would be tricky…but they didn’t know that Ira knew about Jerl. He could use that.

“I think its doable,” said Lore thoughtfully.

“Good,” Tavish replied briskly. “We’ll start in the morning. The warlord is…inconvenienced right now.”

As Tavish said this he looked to Brail, who smirked. Lore tried not to think about what that meant. Was he injured? Drugged? Both?

Lore stood from his crouch and watched with satisfaction as both Brail and Tavish’s hired man stepped back a little, wary.

“Vash will show you where you can sleep,” said Tavish, dismissing him “I’ll send for you when we are ready.” Vash, who turned out to be the muscle _,_ eyed Lore carefully, then turned and left the tent. Lore followed, his back crawling under Brail’s hard gaze as he did.

That one was dangerous, Lore thought. He would have to play this very, very carefully.

~*~

“Where you can sleep” turned out to be an empty tent within Tavish’s camp. Lore took the time to scout the closest exits and the best route into the woods from his position. He was not badly situated here – a few hundred metres and the guard line were all that stood between his structure and the trees. He thought he could definitely make it if he had the element of surprise on his side.

His assassin escort watched him as he trudged around the structure, but did not object. When Lore retreated into his tent, the other man finally left, instructing a pair of regular troops to stand outside his door and report his movements. They were taking him at his word that he had turned coat, it seemed, but were still keeping an eye on him.

Lore waited until everyone relaxed, retreating into “his” quarters to sharpen everything he owned to a razor’s edge. The only sound the guards would hear for a long time was the scrape of whetstone on metal. Then, after dark, he ditched his watchers and slipped out the back. He spent some unsupervised time gathering things he thought he might need and stowing them in an out-of-the-way spot. Extra food. A tent. A sled. Snow-shoes. Water. Blankets. A knife or two. Finally, in the early hours of the morning, exhaustion took him and he returned to his guards and his tent and slept.

~*~

Ira was groggy, but he knew that it took them longer to rouse him than they’d expected. He was curled up on the floor of Tavish’s tent, hobbled at his ankles and wrists. He was bleary and confused and his body was sore all over and he felt like he’d been asleep for a thousand years.

For a long time after his eyes had opened he had felt almost nothing. No pain. No worry. He knew he was looking at the general and the warlord whom he had sworn to kill, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Rov, the march on the pass, the last few weeks camped in the valley by the hotspring - it all seemed like a distant memory.

But he was coming back to himself slowly. And as he did he was beginning to feel certain things. Mostly pain, at first. Then nausea. Then, finally, worry. His worry came with a host of unanswerable questions. They had caught on to his ruse too quickly. Had they intercepted Miko? What had happened with Lore? What had happened to the hundred soldiers who had stayed with him and fought so hard? What day was it? How long had he been asleep?

When he was sufficiently conscious, they sat him upright against some furniture. They were rough and Ira was limp and unhelpful. He had injuries, he thought. His ribs hurt. And his face. He couldn’t see anyone, because they were all behind him, but he knew Tavish was there, and the big one – Brail. And some hired muscle.

It seemed like a lot of manpower for a single injured warlord. He wondered why they’d brought him here. Maybe he’d be tortured or killed.

Seated as he was he had a full view of Lore as he let himself into Tavish’s tent.

For a second, Ira’s heart leapt with relief. Then he realized that Lore was unbound and unaccompanied. He walked in under his own power. Ira’s relief turned to horror. So he’d been right – Lore had finally betrayed him.

Ira, who had spent so much time being certain that the assassin would turn on him, was surprised by the strength of the hurt that hit him to find it confirmed.

Lore didn’t even look at him as he greeted Ira’s enemies. He walked past him and out of his field of view. Behind him, two more assassins entered and took up posts on either side of the door. Ira lowered his head to his chest, feeling an overwhelming sense of defeat.

Ira kept his eyes tightly shut, so he was surprised when Lore’s voice came from directly in front of him. The assassin had dropped to his haunches before the conquered warlord, and was looking into his battered face.

“You went too far,” Lore was saying over his head. It was not addressed it him, but to Tavish. “If you get nothing from him it will be your own fault.”

Lore reached out and put a finger under Ira’s chin, coaxing his head up. The gesture, gentle and intimate, was an almost perfect mirror of the way Ira had touched Lore before they had kissed. It enough to startle Ira into opening his eyes. He found himself looking directly into Lore’s familiar blue eyes, cool and perfectly expressionless. The sight was enough to knock the breath out of him and Ira, as much as he hated himself for it, let out a chocking gasp at the intensity of his hurt. Lore withdrew his hand slowly.

As he did, Ira saw him sign.

_Eyes open fool._

Aloud, he said gently. “Hi. There you are.”

Ira said nothing. But he kept his eyes open as Lore had told him to, suddenly unsure again of the assassin’s loyalty. Lore rocked back on his heels, looking thoughtful.

_They’re drugging you_ , he signed as he moved.

“As you can see, the situation has changed somewhat,” Lore said calmly, aloud. “Do you understand what this means?”

_You should try not to eat anything they give you_.

Ira said nothing. He didn’t move. He didn’t know what he could possibly say. His eyes were locked on Lore. Lore sighed.

“I suppose I should explain. Tavish has offered me a lot of money. Much more than Rov did. I have decided to take it and forfeit my contract with you.” No sign accompanied this, but Ira knew for a fact that Rov had paid Lore nothing and so he was unsure what to make of the statement.

“Furthermore, I’ve told my new employers everything I know about your plans. Which was, as you are aware, quite a lot.”

_This is false. They know nothing_.

Fear and uncertainty roiled in Ira. Between Lore’s words, actions, and hand sign there was an overwhelming amount of input. He did not know what to believe and his brain, still groggy, could not deal with the implications of Lore’s double meaning.

“what do you need me for, then,” Ira managed. He voice was rusty from sleep and disuse.

“Just to confirm a few things,” said Lore vaguely.

_They don’t know where M is. You should give me false details._ His fingers flickered their message, and Ira fought down relief. Miko had got away.

“Like what happened to the supply wagons they had sent up from Abosa.”

_They don’t know we know about their alliance with J._

Ira’s mouth twitched in sudden, insane amusement. Lore had set him up with a question that would be believable all around. But Lore had no way of knowing what Ira had found on those wagons.

They had found dynamite. Lots and lots of dynamite.

“You’ll find out when you get into the far pass,” Ira spit angrily. Lore, surprised, flicked his eyes up over Ira’s shoulder. There was the sound of some uncomfortable rearrangement from his audience, but no one said anything.

“I see,” said Lore after a moment, realizing that he’d missed something. “And the food?”

“Destroyed,” said Ira. “too heavy to take above the passes.” He added a smug smirk here for good measure, knowing it was probably expected.

“Inconvenient,” Lore said aloud, “but I’m sure my employer will find ways to cope. One more thing, warlord, and then I think we’ll let you go.” Ira shrugged, indifferent.

“Cairn. As we all know now, you have left a crew of three hundred to protect Rov in your absence.” The number, they both knew, was a wild overestimate. Lore continued.

“I’ve speculated about two weeks before supplies run out,” said Lore. “But what I have not been privy to is the arrangement she’s made with her brother. Will he resupply her, do you think?”

Ira stayed silent for a long while. Then, putting as much bitterness as he could into his voice, he said, “Your employers are fools. Whether he does or not won’t matter. With Miko and Hael in the passes you can’t come close to Cairn.” The answer suggested he had no idea about the alliance they’d made with Jerl, and that he had split his army to defend the pass rather than Cairn.

Lore rocked back on his heels, considering.

_That will do,_ said Lore’s hands. _Nice work_.

“I’ll take that as a no,” the assassin said aloud. His eyes flicked over Ira’s shoulder again, addressing the enemy generals. “Well…is there anything else you want to know?”

“Not for now,” came the mild and amused reply. Tavish.

Lore stood. As he did, he hands moved rapidly. _I’m coming for you. Be patient. Stay alive_.

Ira slumped. He was exhausted. He could feel waves of nausea washing over him. Lore was right about the drugs. Ira’s body was not his own.

“One more thing.” Brail’s growl startled him, and although Ira could only see the assassin’s legs from his place on the floor, he saw Lore’s muscles stiffen at the tone of that voice. It was dangerous. Lore feared it.

“Ask him if he still loves your traitorous little heart.” The request was spit out, packed with barely repressed rage.

Ira was unprepared for both the question and its vehemence. He looked up into Lore’s face, shocked. Lore’s blue eyes met his again and held. There was a brief silence as the room held its breath.

Then the assassin made a dismissive gesture.

“He never loved me.” Lore’s answer was quiet. It was obvious that he had meant to say it with the same mildness he’d had used throughout the interview, but failed. The pain in it almost broke Ira. He wanted to scream. His own pain coursed through him. He dropped his head, unable to bear the evenness of Lore’s gaze.

Brail could apparently summon no response to this strange confession.

“Get rid of him,” he snarled instead. Ira, numb, was lifted from the floor by Tavish’s men. They half pushed, half carried him out of the tent, across the snow, and back to his cell. He couldn’t see Lore.

He drifted in an out of awareness as they pulled him back out into the friged air, across the camp, and back to his cell. Lore’s blue gaze was burned into his mind’s eye. Tied to the wall again a few minutes later, he vomited. Weak and heartsick, he fell unconscious. The darkness came as a relief.

~*~

It did not take long for Brail to make the move Lore had known was coming. He was too angry to abide by Tavish’s orders for long. Lore was trying hard to stay out of his way, but it didn’t work.

He was nonchalantly having a closer look at the place where they held prisoners when one of Brail’s assassins showed up next to him and pressed a cold knife into his ribs.

Lore was getting rather tired of this tactic, but he knew better than to complain about it. He didn’t say anything. He just sighed, shot the man an irritated glare, and obediently followed where he was directed.

It turned out they weren’t going far. He was taken to a makeshift wooden shelter - just like the one he’d been held in before his conversation with Tavish. Inside, the crude structure was divided into three cells. The middle one held Ira.

Ira and Brail, of course, who was leaning against the wall looking uncharacteristically thoughtful. And since Lore was counting, the cell also held two additional pieces of hired muscle. He knew one of them from before, and knew that he would be difficult but not impossible to kill in a fight. The other one was a new face, and his escort was a stranger too. Wildcards. The cell felt overcrowded with the five of them in it.

Ira was on the ground, his arms attached to a metal bar against the wall. He was crumpled over himself, and pale. But Lore was relieved to see that his eyes were open and watching. They were clearer than they had been before. He’d been refusing food.

Lore stopped in the doorway, but the hired muscle pushed him hard and he was forced to enter. The door closed behind him.

“Remove his weapons,” was the first thing Brail said. Lore’s escort quickly patted him down, pulling out sharp things as he went. He passed Lore’s long dirk directly to Brail, who took it, turning it over in his hands.

“I remember this one,” he said quietly. Lore did not respond. It had been his brother’s. It was the only thing he had left of Lark’s. And Brail would have seen it often.

“Do you know why I’ve brought you here, traitor?”

Lore blinked slowly. “To find a way to get rid of me, I presume.”

Brail took two sauntering steps toward the assassin, the dirk still in his hands.

“I realized something, today,” said Brail. He was clearly enjoying the moment, and declined to answer Lore directly. Lore waited patiently.

“I told Tavish not to hire you because we don’t have collateral on you this time,” he continued. “To keep you loyal. But then I realized something. We do have collatoral. We have him.” Brail gestured at Ira with the knife.

“I’m no longer employed by Rov,” replied Lore easily. “I have no attachment to the warlord beyond his usefulness to Tavish.”

Brail smiled. He stood directly in front of Lore now, and put the tip of the dagger on the assassin’s throat. Brail was a big man. His presence would have been overwhelming even if Lore hadn’t had a host of bad memories to elevate the feeling. But Lore remained unaffected, his eyes half-closed and calm, his face relaxed.

But when Brail leaned close, part of his calm broke. A memory assaulted him: Brail’s hand on his jaw, his mouth forced open, Lark’s scream…

It took enormous self control not to lean backwards as the general pushed himself into Lore’s space.

“You know you look just like him,” Brail murmured, looking appraising at Lore’s face and throat. “both of you were so beautiful. Him more of course. He didn’t have that nose.”

It had been Lark who had broken Lore’s nose, when they were sixteen and training at the school. The memory sprung unbidden into Lore’s mind, a welcome respite from the others that crowded in on him. They had both been so serious then. So full of self-importance. They’d been sparring and Lark had gotten faster and stronger than Lore gave him credit for. He had always been the underdog, until that summer, when he had worked hard to catch up to his older brother…and then one day, _bam_ , broken nose. Lark had been so ashamed and apologetic…

“I think about him sometimes. Late at night…” Brail’s voice snapped Lore back to the present. Reference to Brail’s abuse of Lark was clearly meant to provoke a reaction from Lore, but the assassin wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. His face remained expressionless, his gaze cool.

“Its too bad about how it all ended. I haven’t had a good fuck in ages.”

When this, too, failed to provoke a reaction from Lore, Brail seemed disappointed. His mouth went from open leer to tight, hard line. He abruptly changed tactics.

“Anyway,” he said, turning from him abruptly and walking back toward Ira, “you were saying you had no attachment to the warlord, weren’t you? Then why did my night attack find you curled up in his bed like a camp whore? Does he have something on you we don’t know about?”

The general crouched next to Ira, vaguely threatening. Ira’s eyes were on Lore. He looked questioning, but unafraid. Lore felt his stomach twist. The warlord was learning all kinds of things about Rov’s assassin Lore had never intended anyone else to know…

Under the circumstances, and Ira’s gaze, Lore decided on the truth in answer to Brail’s question.

“I was injured and fell unconscious in an inconvenient place,” Lore said.

“It turned out to be fortunate for the warlord. Not so fortunate for your attack.” He could not resist this rub.

“Liar!” hissed Brail, and with a sudden movement plunged Lore’s knife into Ira’s leg where it lay on the wooden floor. Ira cried out in surprise and pain, and Lore, before he could stop himself, lunged forward.

Instantly, three assassins were between him and Brail.

“Ah,” said Brail, satisfaction dripping from his voice.

“I thought that might be the case.”

Lore had begun to shake. He had given away his hand the second he had moved forward. Brail knew now that he had been right. Ira _was_ collateral. Like Lore had been collateral. Like Lark. It was the same as before.

Lore, as a rule, had few weaknesses. It seemed Brail had an unnatural talent for being able to find the one person in the whole world he could use against him.

Brail sauntered toward Lore, pushing his hired killers aside to approach his victim. The three hired men eyed each other, uncertain about how to protect him.

Brail paid no attention. He grabbed Lore roughly behind the back of his neck and without warning forced his mouth down on Lore’s, shoving his tongue into Lore’s mouth.

Lore, startled, struggled to pull back, but Brail dug his other hand into Lore’s left bicep, where the spear had struck him. Lore made an involuntary noise of pain. He was losing control.

Memories were flooding Lore now. Things he had blocked out. Brail, huge and naked, over Lark’s bruised body. Lark crying. Lark calling his name. Brail’s hand on his neck. The feeling of helplessness as he was pushed against the wall, hands holding him from behind…

Brail squeezed hard, pushing down. Panic took over Lore’s body.

“On your knees, whore,” Brail hissed. All the put-on calm that had been in Brail when Lore had first entered the room was gone, and the rage he had seen in Tavish’s tent replaced it.

Lore crumpled. One of the hired muscle, the one Lore knew, came around behind him to grab his wrists. This wasn’t new for him, Lore thought as he fought down panic and nausea and the corners of his eyes went dark. He had done this for Brail before. Lore felt helplessness rise up in him. It was all happening again…the same…

Brail was fumbling with his pants, one hand pushed hard into Lore’s hair, forcing his head back. Behind him, the hired muscle was pulling Lore’s wrists to keep him from fighting back…

Ira’s voice cut through the chaos in Lore’s mind.

“Lore!” The sound of his voice made Lore’s vision abruptly clear. The warlord’s eyes locked with his, and Lore watched as Ira kicked the dirk across the floor, noticed, somehow, that it was still covered in his fresh blood…

Time seemed to slow down.

The blade was spinning, flashing toward him. Lore realized his right hand was still free. He reached out, caught the hilt…

Lore exploded upwards from the ground, point first.

The dirk went up through Brail’s chin and into his brain, as Lore’s fist shattered his jaw.

Brail fell backwards, but Lore was already spinning into the man behind him, knife edge leading. Sharpened to razor fineness, it sliced through the man’s throat like paper. Blood spurted from an artery, but Lore was still moving.

He kicked the second assassin in the chest with both feet and then followed through with the dirk as the man stumbled backwards. Lore bore him to the ground with his own body weight and put the dirk through his left eye.

The last one was turning to call for help, but Lore’s blade found him first – he threw it so hard he pinned the man to the wooden door.

Instinct had fully kicked in. Lore did not even think.

He was at the door in a second, pulling his blade out of the third man’s body and letting it slump to the floor. Before he knew what he was doing, he picked up a lantern and threw it hard at the wooden floor. Darkness enveloped them suddenly. Then, slowly, flames began to lick at the wood.

Before the flames had a chance to catch, Lore was with Ira, cutting his leather shackles. Ira was breathing hard as his arms dropped, free, to his sides. Adrenaline, Lore thought. He was better, but there was no question that he was still under the influence of the drugs they’d given him. Coming off them would be rough. Lore crouched next to the warlord in the firelight.

“Hello Ira,” Lore said, “I think its time to go.” Ira nodded, struggled to his feet, and followed Lore out the door and across the dark camp.

It was snowing thickly again. They were at the edge before the thin structure of power that underlay Brail and Tavish’s control buckled. There was a lot of shouting. Not enough fire fighting. But they were in the woods before the flames leapt above the barricades.

They were headed north as Merk heard the news of Brail’s death and the camp collapsed in on itself with a roar. Southerners, Lore thought. They never could resist an opportunity for a coup.

~*~

When they got to the treeline, far east and north of the camp, it became clear to Ira that no one was following them.

They stopped, and Ira dropped into the snow, laying on his back. It was deeper here. Pillowy soft and fresh.

He was exhausted. The drugs he’d been fed had not yet left him, He felt thick and numb. Blood soaked the leg of his pants. He remembered pain there, but it was faint and throbbing.

Lore stumbled a little way from him through the trees and then collapsed in the snow on all fours. Ira could hear him retching. When he came back he was pale and shaking.

“Are you alright?” Ira’s voice sounded thick and gravely, even to his own ears.

Lore nodded. “I just…Brail…” he looked sick again, and looked away. “Too many memories,” he mumbled finally.

Ira didn’t press. He thought he had a good sense of how things had been between Lore and Brail after watching their interaction in his cell. He had been shocked when Brail had assaulted him, but even more surprised to see the way that Lore shut down. It was a reaction that could only have come from serious trauma. The memory of his abuse and his brother’s death obviously still haunted him.

Ira knew they should move on – just because there was no immediate pursuit didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one soon, and he was slow and clumsy. Lore had brought a sled, which contained snow shoes and some supplies, but no bandages, and he was leaving a trail of blood. The wound was clean, but bleeding sluggishly in the cold.

Lore noticed this, and strode quickly to Ira’s side to get a closer look. When his hand brushed the torn plant leg, Ira flinched, but the reaction was more habitual than anything. His senses were dull and distant, like in a dream. Lore rummaged in the sled and came up with a blanket, which he quickly tore into strips. He wrapped these tightly around the leg above the wound. Then he placed a firm hand over the cut itself, watching Ira’s face. This time, Ira did not flinch. There was no sensation at all. Lore picked up snow and scrubbed away the worst of the blood before wrapping the leg with more blanket and padding. Ira knew it should have been excruciating, but it wasn’t. There was just a dull burning sensation, which was definitely wrong.

“It should probably be stitched,” Lore muttered, half to himself, but he hadn’t brought needle or gut and even if he had, there was no time.

Ira was surprised to find, when Lore tried to pull him to his feet, that he couldn’t stand. Lore, unphased, paused for only a second before pushing him into their sled, picking up the rope, and going on.

~*~ 

Finally, after a long time, they stopped. Light was touching the edge of the sky and the temperature had dropped. Ira had been in and out of consciousness as they moved. Now he roused and watched Lore’s breath steam on the icy air. Lore came to him and crouched to touch Ira’s cheek.

The gesture made Ira ache.

“We’ll sleep for a while,” Lore said gently.

Ira tried hard to move himself, but his limbs felt thick and clumsy and his vision kept going black. Eventually he sat upright. Then it was his turn to vomit over the side of the sled. Lore held him. If he hadn’t, Ira would have collapsed right into it.

“It will get worse before it gets better,” Lore said gently. Then with a professional irritation, “they gave you too much.”

They had no tent, but Lore pulled Ira and their gear into the shelter of a tree well. It was warmer beneath the pine branches and snowy banks, and their body-heat warmed the little space further.

“Tell me if you feel sick again,” Lore told him. Ira nodded, but the nausea had passed and been replaced with exhaustion. He did not even see Lore lay out the bedding before he fell asleep.


	8. Chapter 8 + Epilogue

He woke, eventually, to the smell of snow and pine and the feeling of Lore’s warm body against his own.

He felt more alert than he had in days.

He was on his back, looking up at the underside of dark green branches. Lore was half on top of him, one arm draped across his chest. The air was utterly silent and still.

Lore sensed the change in his breathing and woke. He propped himself up to look at Ira. Their eyes met, and the corner of Lore’s mouth quirked in the hint of a smile.

“There you are,” he said softly.

“How long has it been?” Ira’s voice came out in a croak. He felt like he had been asleep for a thousand years.

“A day and a night,” Lore said mildly, and stretched a little against Ira. The warlord was awake enough to enjoy it, feeling a tingle of excitement which he hastily ignred.

“I couldn’t move you. Yesterday I thought you might die, but your fever finally broke in the night, and then it was just a matter of time.” This was said lightly, but Ira could sense the fear under it and was struck with his own guilt. Lore had given him nothing but unwavering loyalty and he had given him…what? Heartache, distrust, pain. His mind flashed back to that night in Brail’s camp. He had been shocked at the general’s actions, and even more so by Lore’s obvious hurt. Abuse of that sort – emotional or physical – simply were not part of Ira’s world. Having witnessed it first-hand, he now understood Lore’s motives. His skin crawled at the thought of what Lore had endured under Brail’s control.

What made it worse was that Ira’s own actions reflected Brail’s. Ira was disgusted with himself.

“It’s a good thing we were not followed,” Lore continued, and began to sit up, separating his warm body from Ira’s with some reluctance. Ira wanted to tell him to stop, but couldn’t quite find the words.

“But we shouldn’t push our luck. If you can help me a little I can move you and we’ll go a little further.” Ira, who could reasonably deny Lore nothing at this point, obliged him. But despite feeling considerably better, he found he was still extremely weak and fumbling - like a child or a young horse which had not yet developed full control of his muscles. He gritted his teeth and did his best not to impede progress as he was loaded like so much baggage into their sled. And when he was there, he fell asleep again almost immediately.

All through the day he slipped in and out of consciousness.

Dreams of his father, of Cairn, and Rov haunted him between his conscious moments. Snow and forest slid by his vision, and the steady sound of Lore’s footsteps followed him even into sleep, steady and plodding. They were going further and further east.

Ira knew there was a place where the mountains lost some of their severity – where two people moving more or less quickly with a sled could pass over a ridge and into the next valley. When they stopped, he told Lore about it. Lore nodded and touched his face again, feeling for fever.

“I know,” he said, “I spent a lot of time reading up on Cairnish geography, despite your efforts to distract me.”

Ira didn’t know what this last part meant, but didn’t have the energy to question him.

The second night was colder, and they curled up tightly together to share their body heat without discussing it. Lore wrapped around Ira like a cat. There was something intensely comforting about his presence. Ira felt protected, watched over, and safe. It was not a feeling he’d ever experienced before, let alone something he ever expected to feel in the middle of the wilderness, injured and alone with a hired assassin. But Lore has proved his loyalty. More than proved it. Ira understood his motivations now, having watched them play out personally.

Of course, being trustworthy did not necessarily equate with sharing body heat. Ira told himself that it was for practical reasons. There was no way that they could light a fire here, on the same side of the mountains as Tavish. It would send a signal for a hundred kilometres, and they had no way of knowing whether Merk or Tavish or whoever remained in control of the enemy forces would follow that signal or not. Neither of them wanted to find out.

He shouldn’t read into it, he told himself. He had watched Lore’s expression close that night in the hotspring. If there had been anything there, it had ended in that moment. Ira had destroyed it.

~*~

In the morning Ira felt considerably stronger, and was able to walk alongside Lore for most of the day. By late afternoon he could go no further, but they were close to the place where Ira thought they could cross, so they stopped for the night rather than push on with Ira in the sled. Lore, too, was hurting and exhausted. Rest would do them both good.

For the first time since they had left Tavish’s camp, Ira was able to eat. Lore had smuggled bread and dried meat and thick calorie-rich cakes made from grains and animal fats.

Exhausted and lost in their own thoughts, neither of them spoke before falling asleep.

They both woke a few hours before dawn. Ira felt strong and refreshed. His thigh, where Tavish had stabbed him, was throbbing painfully. Ira welcomed it. It was a sign of returning normalcy.

Under the pale light of a cold dawn they turned north and up.

The shoulders of the mountains sloped lower here. As they climbed above the trees the wind picked up, biting through Ira’s tattered trousers and stinging his face and eyes with blowing snow. It took them until after noon to crest the ridge. At the top the snow had been blown into a great curving carapace.

Ira, who understood the mechanics of mountain snow better than his coastal-born assassin, picked them a route that avoided risk of collapse. On the other side the wind was slightly less and the going easier as they descended, half walking half tumbling down the slope carried by the weight of the sled and their own momentum.

At the treeline they stopped, exhausted, and camped again. They were both shivering as their sweat began to dry against their skin. Lore looked up at the ridge and down at the valley below them thoughtfully, and Ira knew he was considering a fire.

“Not worth the risk,” Ira said. “One more night.” His voice was still gravelly, but much stronger than it had been yesterday. Lore looked at him and nodded.

As they curled up together in the shelter of another pine, Ira rolled over to face Lore. He had something to say, and it couldn’t wait any longer. The assassin’s eyes were closed, dark and heavy with exhaustion, but they fluttered when Ira touched his cheek. Ira couldn’t see their colour in the darkness of the gathering night.

“Lore,” he said quietly into the dark air. “I’m sorry. I failed you.”

Lore was silent for a long time. Neither of them was shivering any more, warmed by the proximity of their bodies under the shelter of the branches above them and the snow all around.

Finally, Lore’s own hand came up to catch Ira’s wrist where his hand still rested on his face, holding it against his skin.

“There is nothing to be sorry for,” Lore said, “I chose this. I chose to follow Rov, and then you. I had my own purposes.”

“Even though I distrusted you and gave you nothing but hardship in return.” Ira’s voice was bitter.

Lore smiled, and Ira felt it more than saw it in the darkness.

“You have that effect on people, Ira,” Lore said, a hint of teasing in his voice, “You are like the sun and the rest of us are drawn to spin around you like planets. Rov. Miko, Yael. Me. We can’t help but gravitate to you and follow you, regardless of what you do.”

Ira was silent. You’re different, he wanted to say. There’s something different about you and what you gave me - are still giving me. I feel drawn to you, too. But he couldn’t say it. The words got caught in his throat.

It was where his mistrust had started from, he realized suddenly. He was used to receiving the adoration of others, and though he always returned it, love for love, he had never felt the kind of gravitational pull Lore was describing- until the beautiful, mysterious assassin had walked into his life, upending his sense of order and direction, sending the physics of his mind and body spinning.

“Anyway,” said Lore, the smile gone from his voice, “I got what I wanted in the end.” Ira knew he was referring to Brail, and the opportunity to avenge his brother that last night in Tavish’s camp when it had all come crashing down.

Ira had been shocked at Lore’s deadly ruthlessness on the night of their escape. His ploy with the dirk had been impulsive and desperate – in truth he had thought them outnumbered. Lore’s complete collapse in the face of Brail’s bullying had told him they were both doomed. He had not expected the assassin to react to his voice when he’d called out – only for Brail to be distracted. But Lore had come back to himself abruptly, snapping back into consciousness. And then, with his knife in his hand…

it was the first time he had seen all of Lore’s careful training at work, in its element, and backed by the assassin’s own sense of justice and purpose. It was, frankly, frightening to think that the man who had dealt so much death lay inches from him now, tranquil and warm as a cat, in the reflected heat of Ira’s body.

“Tell me about Lark,” he whispered into the darkness, changing the subject.

Lore smiled again and his pulled himself closer to Ira, tucking his head under the warlord’s chin. Ira wrapped him in his arms and held him against his body. It felt so good. So right. He never wanted it to end.

“Lark was good at everything I was not,” Lore began as he arranged himself.

He told Ira a story from their childhood, when they had been studying hand sign at the school and Lark, who grasped it more quickly than his older brother, had used it to torture him with complicated stories, gossip he couldn’t understand, and mischief he had no way of predicting – until Lore had, by necessity, caught up to him. “He was like you,” Lore murmured sleepily from Ira’s chest, “you both learned so quickly….”

“Mmm,” said Ira, indistinctly. They fell asleep shortly after, wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

~*~

When they woke before dawn they untangled themselves stiffly and packed the sled, shivering in the cold, as the first light touched the sky. Then they continued, down, down, down, the mountain slope, seemingly forever. That night, they had a fire and were a little warmer, but they still slept tightly curled together. At Ira’s request, Lore told him more of Lark and their coming of age at the school, learning to fight and kill and plan together. Their early jobs, their clumsiness, the brotherly love they had for each other.

The night after, they began to ascend again, and when they camped it was Ira’s turn to tell old stories. Ira told Lore about Miko, who was as close to a younger sister as Ira had ever had – but much more difficult than Lark, who had always reflected Lore’s adoration back at him. Miko had always been impetuous and proud. She had tested Ira’s skill and patience as a leader and a friend constantly in Rov’s army. But much like Rov had insisted on Lore’s inclusion in her little family, so too had she insisted Ira deal with Miko.

Ira realized silently that in the end, as much as Ira had resisted, both decisions had saved his life.

The days and nights passed this way, in pleasant conversation, and shared heat, and endless walking. Ira lost count of how long many days that had travelled until he realized, abruptly, that they were on ground he knew. He looked up and saw the familiar shape on a ridgeline visible from the castle wall.

One more night would bring them to Cairn.

The realization broke the easy pattern they had built together. Ira did not know what they would find when they returned. It was possible that the castle would be taken, Rov captured or dead. It was possible it would be as they had left it, the encircling armies still ensconced in the passes to the east and west of them.

On the last night they did not set a fire, uncertain of who surrounded them in the hills. The darkness came quickly – they were approaching winter solstice.

“Its good we’re nearly there,” Lore observed in the darkness, once they had settled down into the snow. His breath steamed as he spoke. “We only have enough food for one or two more days, at most.”

Ira nodded, distracted.

“Do you have a plan, warlord?” Lore asked him formally. Ira looked at him sharply.

“No, _assassin_ ,” he replied, a little tightly. “It will depend on the circumstances.”

“They will need you,” said Lore, “an army without its warlord is a snake without a head.”

Ira shrugged. He was unsure how true this was. “There’s Rov. And Miko. If I had died in the pass, Miko would have stepped into my place.”

“Maybe,” Lore said, sounding unconvinced.

“Whatever we find, I will like it better if I have slept,” said Ira. A secretive smile flickered across Lore’s face. Ira watched it, entranced. The assassin was so beautiful. Did he know what he did it Ira?

“What are you smiling about” Ira demanded.

“Nothing,” said Lore innocently. “I was only dreaming of warm Cairnish beds with lots of furs and fireplaces.” He voice had a dreamy quality.

“Am I not fireplace enough?” Ira asked gruffly, pretending incredulity. It had already occurred to him that this would also be the last night they shared together. He could not admit to himself how much he would miss the assassin’s close physical companionship. The thought of sleeping alone again left him feeling hollow and lonely.

Lore looked him up and down. “Well you are certainly fur enough,” he quipped. This was a dig at the rough stubble that had grown in during their time on the road. Ira made a face and tried to cuff his companion playfully. Lore dodged, laughing.

Then, to Ira’s surprise, came back in close on his own accord, gently pushing the unresisting warlord back onto their sleeping blanket.

At Lore’s touch, Ira felt the hot rush of desire flash through him. It took him by surprise. It was not the first time Lore had provoked such a reaction in him – Ira remembered the way he had felt when Lore’s hand slid down his body before the night attack, and again when they kissed in the hot spring.

Now the assassin was above him, that teasing smile on his lips, his blonde hair adorably disheveled. Ira wanted more than anything to put his fingers in those soft locks and pull their mouths together, slide his body next to Lore’s, and finish what he’d started that night before he’d ruined it.

He shook his head, trying to clear it. He had lost his right to Lore when he had used the assassin’s little crush to threaten him with death.

Ira had watched the wall come down between them that night. He was certain that any attraction Lore had felt for him had disappeared with the blade edge on his skin.

And then there was Brail. Ira remembered how he had felt when he had seen Lore’s head pushed back under the general’s bruising assault. Brail had used Lark and Lore against each other for his own pleasure. Without knowing it, Ira had mirrored Brail’s actions, using his power over Lore to extract loyalty. Lore was still vulnerable and hurting. It felt wrong to make a move on the other man so soon after all of that, especially when Ira was guilty of using the same tactics as Brail had by manipulating the assassin’s feelings.

So instead of doing what he wanted to do, Ira stayed perfectly still, watching Lore but not acting. Eventually, Lore settled next to Ira, sighing softly as he did. Ira wrapped him in his arms, as had been their custom since that first night, and wondered if it would be the last time he did so, and how he would feel if it was.

~*~

When they arrived above Cairn’s apron valley and looked down, they found no one there.

The farms and villages on the plain were dark and empty. Ira presumed they had sought shelter in the mountains or the castle, with the news of converging armies on their doorstep. Rov’s colours flew above the rampart, unchanged.

“Well? Do we just walk up to the front door?” Lore asked. Ira shrugged.

“I don’t see why not.”

~*~ 

It took most of the day to reach the castle, but someone was watching their progress because just as dusk was falling – even earlier in the days leading up to the solstice – a contingent of riders came out to greet them.

The leader of the group did not even slow her horse as they came to Ira and Lore, throwing herself off its back and into Ira’s arms with a yell of joy.

“They told us you were dead!”

Ira stumbled under her weight, grinning, and when she had finished hugging him held her back at arms length. It was Fae, who had been left in charge of Rov’s skeleton crew. “Who told you? Come on, I’ve been in the woods for weeks. You have to tell me everything.”

Lore had caught Fae’s horse. She collected her reins from him,

“Come on, get up. I’ll ride behind you. The assassin can go with Ven. I’ll tell you as we ride.”

Ira obeyed her, swinging stiffly into the saddle. She hopped up nimbly behind him, and began to talk.

Tavish had not survived Merk’s coup. Nearly a week ago, a messenger had arrived at Cairn from the enemy camp, in Merk’s colours. His letter had explained the situation – Ira dead, the army scattered, Jerl advancing from east. Then it asked Rov politely to surrender.

Rov, whose brothers were descending from the west and would arrive at any moment, and who already knew about Jerl, politely declined. There had been nothing from Merk since.

Messengers from Miko, meanwhile, indicated that the upstart eastern lord Jerl had been driven pack and severely defeated. Miko, too, was on her way home.

All of this was better than Ira could have hoped.

“And you? Are you going to tell me how you’re not dead?” she asked, grinning. “Rov was devastated, you know. She’s going to be very annoyed to find it was all a waste of energy.”

Ira looked back at Lore, who was trying to get news out of the solemn Ven.

“My retainer,” said Ira, “proved extremely useful.” Lore’s identity was an open secret, so Fae just blinked innocently at him and said,

“That’s good.”

When they arrived they went immediately to Rov, who embraced him and then scolded him and then demanded they tell her everything.

With Lore’s help, Ira did. Ira stumbled over the difficult parts. It was hard to explain why Brail had exposed himself to their attack without re-living some of the Lark’s story. Ira gave her the barest possible details, and Lore looked away.

Lore, eventually, was dismissed. But Ira stayed to go over messages and likelihoods and plans. He was with Rov until late in the night, and when he finally returned to his cold quarters Lore was nowhere to be found. Ira curled up in his cold blankets alone and tried hard to remember wet blankets and snow and tree wells so that he wouldn’t miss the warmth of Lore’s body against him.

~*~

Rov’s brothers arrived the next day, streaming across the plain with a force of seven-hundred soldiers.

Suddenly Cairn was bustling again – full of horses and food and people. Ira immediately sent a small mobile force to the pass where Merk would be ascending. With the additions to Rov’s army he wanted to set ambushes and report on the general’s progress.

Miko returned two days later, on the night of the solstice. She was weathered and hungry but triumphant. Like Fae, her enthusiasm on seeing his face, alive and well, nearly knocked Ira over. When she finally pulled back to look at him, there were tears in her eyes.

“I thought you were dead,” she said roughly. “what would we have done without you?”

“Dead or alive, I did nothing of substance on this campaign,” Ira observed dryly. “The evidence suggests you can operate perfectly fine without me.”

“That’s not true,” said Miko, “When the soldiers heard there was unbearable melancholy in the camp. We were fighting Jerl, but we were afraid to send the troops out because the will had gone out of them. We could easily have been defeated.”

Ira was uncomfortably reminded of what Lore had said about the loyalty of his forces, and their dependence on him. Miko also had that power, he thought to himself. The troops love her, too. He could have done better for her, he realized. He _would_ do better for her. He could ensure she became a warlord in Cairn.

“And yet somehow you managed,” he said archly.

Miko shrugged. “Well, after the grief came the anger,” she said mildly. “And that was much more effective.”

~*~

With Miko home and Cairn full of strangers, the winter solstice celebrations were more riotous than usual. There was companionship and relief and love. With Miko settled, routine returning, and festivities in full swing, Ira found that he was no longer needed. He had little to do. 

He felt lonely and listless. He had craved Lore’s presence for days. His preoccupation with matters of state combined with an uncomfortable awareness that Lore probably did not share his obsessiveness had kept him from seeking the assassin out. Now, with nothing to do, he finally broke.

He found the assassin in the library, reading alone in the fading light of the window. Below, the courtyard was full of people. Fires were being built and tables laid out with food, and the sound of festivities rose to up to the room in a kind of muted roar. He paused for a moment in the doorway, arrested by the sight of that familiar profile lit softly by the setting sun – his long hair, sharp chin, and slightly crooked nose, lips lightly parted.

Lore heard him, of course, and looked up. He smiled when he saw Ira, blue eyes glittering with mischief. Ira felt the craving in him grow stronger and entered the room, his eyes on Lore.

The assassin put down his book as the warlord approached. Ira noticed that he looked content and rested. Much better than he had on the road.

Ira joined Lore at the window and looked down at the bustling courtyard below. There were people everywhere, friends and strangers. Milling, laughing, talking.

“I haven’t seen much of you,” he said after a while.

“You’ve been busy,” said Lore, “affairs of state to attend to, and all that.”

“What have you been doing?” Ira asked, and then regretted the question. It was none of his business. He didn’t want to pry into Lore’s activities. After so long in close proximity to Ira, he had likely enjoyed some time to himself. But he couldn’t seem to hide his obsession, his desire to know what Lore had been doing, and with whom.

“Mostly reading,” he said, “and talking to Yael.”

Ira was not surprised that Yael and Lore’s friendship had taken off. The two of them were similar in a lot of ways. Mostly in their quiet deadliness.

“She is merciless,” Lore complained, as if reading his thoughts. “She’s making me teach her how to throw a knife.” Knife throwing was not something generally taught to soldiers in Rov’s army. It was an undercover art. Ira was quietly surprised that Lore had agreed to it.

“And in exchange?”

“More open hand to hand skills. It is my greatest weakness, as you showed me.”

Ira looked down, embarrassed by the memory of their scrap in the courtyard. It seemed so long ago.

“When you’re feeling better, we should spar again,” Lore said mildly. “I have some theories to test.”

Ira’s knife wound was healing cleanly, but it was not fully closed yet. He rubbed it absently. 

“When this heals, I am at your disposal, assassin,” he said.

He noticed, with some incredulity, that he was fighting off nervousness and awkwardness. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He felt like there was a distance between them that had not existed on the road, and he did not know how to cross back over it to the easy relationship they had shared. Without the excuse of necessity, how could he tell Lore he wanted to spend more time with him? That he missed their easy banter and the way they had worked together?

Lore solved his dilemma for him.

“What will you do tonight?” Lore asked in a mild voice. “Will you be joining the festivities? I’m sure they would be glad to have you.”

Ira made a face. “I am not one for late nights and revelry,” he said. “And the officers’ quarters will be noisy until early in the morning. Normally I spend the night on the wall, taking a turn at watch so someone with a more developed sense of fun can enjoy the festivities in my place.”

This provoked a chuckle from Lore, which warmed Ira to his core.

“The moon will be beautiful tonight,” Lore said. “maybe I’ll join you.”

“You know you’re always welcome,” said Ira. He tried to keep the heat out of his voice as he said it. The assassin smiled, and Ira thought he could see a route back to where they had been on the road.

~*~ 

Lore found Ira where he’d promised, leaning over the edge of Cairn’s outer wall, the full moon reflecting from arm braces and lending dramatic shadows to his dark face. He was fully the soldier, in leathers and light plate, his long-sword at his side. Lore wondered if he knew how intimidating he looked, dressed like that. The great warlord of Cairn, surveying his kingdom. Among the most powerful people in the northn.

He turned when he saw Lore coming, and watched the assassin approach. Under Ira’s gaze, Lore felt exposed and vulnerable. Where Ira was all leather and metal and hardness, Lore, on the night of the solstice, was fluid and soft. He had forgone any sort of armour and was wearing cloth slippers and was wrapped in a fur. The two of them, he thought, were a study in contrasts.

Lore carried two steaming mugs with him, and when he joined Ira he passed the warlord one of them silently. The smell of spices and wine wafted on the air. Lore regarded Ira over the brim of his mug with large, innocent eyes.

“Everyone is having a lot of fun without you,” he told Ira, resorting to banter. “I’ve never seen a Cairnish party before.”

Ira gave an amused huff. “Is it so different than a southern party?”

“Yes, much,” said Lore. “In the south there is much less clothing and much better wine.” He paused. Then added,

“I always thought it was a miracle anyone could be seduced in Cairn. But they seem to be managing it.”

Ira laughed openly this time, his dark eyes dancing with amusement and surprise.

Lore, watching him, realized that he had never had the privilege of seeing him laugh like that. The past few months had been so hard on Ira, but back among his own people and having shed his distrust of Lore he was coming back into relaxation and openness.

Lore turned to look our over Cairn’s wall, standing close enough to Ira so that they were almost-but-not-quite touching. They looked out over the frozen fields below, lit by moonlight and the flickering fires of the distant village.

Lore missed the intimacy of their travels. Ira, who had been so close to him over the past weeks, had disappeared in his flurry of preparations and stratagems. Unlike Ira, he had few friends here in Cairn. While Ira had found himself back among his loved ones, Lore had been reminded of his isolation. If it hadn’t been for Yael, he didn’t know what he would have done. She had taken him under her wing and kept him busy with drills and stories and the occasional administrative task. Without her, Lore would probably have spent his days with his face pressed to the library window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ira.

Now that he had the other man back at his side, Lore wanted to reach out and put an arm around the warlord, but it felt somehow wrong here, without the excuse of cold and loneliness. He was uncertain about the nature of their relationship, and needed Ira to give him some sign of his feelings.

Ira’s affection, following their escape, had been deeply confusing. For Lore, their intimate conversations, gentle touches, and nights spent pressed against each other suggested something more than platonic companionship. But these mountain people were effusive with their affection and the southern assassin didn’t know where the line was between fraternal love and decidedly non-fraternal desire.

Ultimately, Lore did not know what to make of any of it. He thought he’d made his own interest relatively clear – Ira had obviously guessed Lore had feelings for him, and had them confirmed by Lore’s utter lack of restraint in the hot spring the night he’d fled Tavish’s camp. But since their single ill-fated kiss, Ira had never acted on any of it. Lore was starting to think that he had totally misinterpreted the warlord’s intentions. Ira loved everyone. And so, during those last days on the road and here at Cairn, Lore had spent a lot of time fighting down his feelings for Ira, who clearly saw him as he did all his companions and friends.

They stood in companionable silence for a while, watching the full moon rise over the icy mountains. Their breath steamed in the air. Lore sipped his wine and tried to enjoy the pure simplicity of the moment. Safe. Warm. Among people who would care for him. It should have been enough.

“Will you stay with us a while in Cairn?” Ira asked the question softly, but Lore detected the strain behind it. He looked at the warlord appraisingly.

“Why do you ask, Ira?” he teased, “would you like me to?”

“Of course I would,” said Ira roughly. Lore was touched, despite himself. So Ira valued his companionship, if nothing else.

“I don’t know,” he said after a while, turning to look back out across the valley. “I was thinking of going south. Back to the school. They could use me there.”

Ira was silent.

“You could come with me,” Lore teased, “Perhaps one day you would make a serviceable assassin.”

This produced a wry smile from both of them, as Lore tried to picture Ira, tall and muscular and straightforward, learning to pick a lock alongside adolescent assassins-in-training. The warlord would probably end up kicking the door in and calling it a day.

Ira had apparently been thinking something similar, because he laughed again.

“I would be hopeless,” he said. Then, “you said its warm there?” Lore nodded.

“Even in the winter, there is no snow. The sun is a kiss on your skin. There are so many different flowers of every colour. And you can swim in the ocean every day.” Lore’s eyes got a bit distant as he remembered it. It had been so long…

“I would go with you if you asked,” Ira said.

Lore met his eyes sharply, surprised. The warlord looked back, dark and serious. What was he getting at?

“And Rov? Miko?” He asked, failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice. Ira sighed.

“If there is anything the last few weeks have shown me, its that they no longer need me. Miko has become a skilled general, and could easily step into my place. For a time, or forever if necessary.”

Lore was silent as he absorbed this.

“Its time I thought about succession,” Ira continued.

“Miko is an obvious choice, and some time without me would give her a chance to grow into the responsibility. Try it out. Let everyone get used to the idea.” He had obviously been thinking about this for a while. He sounded almost wondering as he said it, as if the revelation that Miko was ready for that kind of responsibility was still a bit of a surprise to him.

Lore allowed himself to imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to take Ira south with him. They would travel together again, all the way out of the mountains. It would take weeks…just the two of them. And at the end, a reversal of their current situation, with Ira the foreigner and Lore the guide. Lore couldn’t help the little thrill of excitement that went through him at the thought of having Ira all to himself for so long. Anything could happen.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally, putting the teasing back in his voice. It wouldn’t do to let Ira know how desperately he wanted it. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

“I won’t,” said Ira.

Then he frowned and, turning toward Lore, changed the subject abruptly.

“I violated your trust, Lore. I know that.”

Lore tried to find emotional footing as Ira dragged him out of his fantasy and back to the tenuous matter of their present relationship.

“I apologised before, in the mountains, for mistrusting you. But it went beyond that. I used you, in the hot spring. You were vulnerable and hurting and I used both to hurt you more. It was wrong.” The words spilled out of Ira. It was obvious that it had been weighing on him, but it was not a confession Lore had been prepared for. He didn’t know how to respond.

It did not seem like Ira had been prepared for it either. Having let the words spill out, Ira pressed his lips together and abruptly turned away, looking at the moon rather than meet Lore’s eyes.

Lore floundered, knowing he needed to say something but unable to find the words. He knew that Ira felt badly about the way that he had treated Lore, especially after seeing Brail’s abuse first-hand. But he had not expected the warlord to be so perceptive of Lore’s pain, and the way that his actions had, consciously or not, opened old wounds for the assassin.

Lore began to wonder if this was the reason Ira hadn’t followed up on that kiss. Did he think that doing so might have further mirrored Brail’s unwelcome advances? But how could Lore tell him that this was different? So different that the comparison had not even really occurred to him. Ira’s deception had been such a small one it was almost laughable. And it had been Lore who had been unable to control himself that night, throwing himself at the warlord without thinking about the consequences.

"Can I ask you a question?” Lore asked finally, his voice quiet.

Ira turned his dark eyes on him. His face was open. “Anything,”

“That night when you kissed me in the hotspring…how much of it was a ploy?” he asked. He tried to sound casual, but his voice was tense and shaking. He was afraid of the answer, but he needed to know. Lore felt stupid for having misread Ira’s motives and exposing his own feelings so embarrassingly. It was only Ira’s iron-hard sense of honour that redeemed Lore – his apology had been genuine, and Lore trusted that he would never use Lore’s slip against him.

But now he needed to know. He needed Ira to say it out loud, so that he could stop wondering where the line was between Cairnish affection and Cairnish desire.

A look of sadness flickered over Ira’s face. “there was no ploy,” he said finally. “I wanted you. But I was so scared…” His voice sounded pained and broken.

“Oh.” The confession hung in the space between them. Lore’s breath was coming shallow and fast in his chest. He didn’t know what to say. This was…unexpected. He felt heat rising in his body.

“I’m sorry,” said Ira, looking at the ground, “you didn’t ask for any of this.”

“Don’t apologise,” Lore replied, absently. He was biting his lip. Then, rather than explain with words, Lore stepped into Ira’s space, breaking the barrier of touch that had been between them. Ira drew in a sharp breath, surprised.

Lore looked up at Ira, narrowing his eyes appraisingly. His right hand pushed under Ira’s cloak and firmly grasped the hilt of the broadsword hanging at the warlord’s hip.

“Lets not have a repeat of last time, shall we?”

“no,” Ira whispered.

Then Lore smiled slowly, then pushed his left hand into the warlord’s dark hair, closed his fingers, and pulled their mouths together.

Ira did not resist, but he was hesitant – careful. Lore pushed down impatience, forcing himself to go slowly, to enjoy Ira’s sweetness. He tasted like the mulled wine and spices Lore had brought him, and it was so delicious Lore could hardly contain himself. He could feel the other man begin to shake with the strain of holding himself back, and relished it, teasing the warlord by pulling back to run his tongue over Ira’s lower lip.

With that, Ira lost his caution, taking over what Lore had started. He put a gloved hand behind the small of the assassin’s back and pulled their bodies together. Lore felt the hard lines of the warlord’s body under his cloak and shivered with pleasure.

After a while, Lore pulled back, needing air. When he looked up, he saw that Ira’s eyes were dark and unfocused. His breath came as quick and excited as Lore’s own. Ira pushed into him, trying to keep the contact from ending.

“That was nice,” Lore whispered. Ira said nothing, his eyes on the assassin’s mouth. Lore took a nervous breath.

“My rooms are quiet,” he said. “Once your watch is over, you could come sleep there.” He hesitated. “If you want.”

“I’d like that,” Ira’s voice was husky. The corners of Lore’s mouth turned up.

“Will you be long?” Ira’s eyes didn’t leave Lore’s face. His voice was distracted, as if he would rather put his mouth to better use than talking.

“Yael is replacing me after midnight.”

Lore sighed and lowered his eyes, put his hand on Ira’s chest. The Cairns and their ridiculous sense of duty. It would be his undoing.

“You could stay the watch with me until then…” it was Ira’s turn to hesitate. “If you want,” he added hurriedly, “I mean just keep me company out here. I was thinking we could talk, like we did in the mountains.”

Lore’s body was humming. The only thing he wanted right now was to pull Ira’s clothes off and explore every inch of the warlord’s body - but he could pretend to be interested in other things, for now. The assassin flashed the warlord his most charming smile.

“I’d love to.” His arms slid around Ira’s waist, and the warlord wrapped him in his cloak, pulling him against his chest. The moon was full and bright above them. They leaned against the parapet together, shielded from the cold by each others’ body heat. Ira’s mouth was next to his ear.

“While we’re waiting, you could tell me more about solstice celebrations in the south,” the warlord requested, his voice quiet and still husky.

Lore smiled secretively against Ira’s chest. Now there was a topic that would make a Cairnish warlord blush.

He turned in Ira’s arms so that his back was against the warlord’s chest, his head falling back against the other man’s shoulder, looking up past him to the clear, bright stars above. He allowed himself to lean fully against Ita, enjoying the contact of their bodies and eliciting a satisfied sound.

He told Ira about southern solstices. He made sure not to miss any of the details. When he finished, they kissed again.

By the time Yael found them at midnight, they were both breathless and disheveled and laughing. She eyed them suspiciously as they left the wall together, totally absorbed in each other.

~*~

Lore slid the door closed softly behind them and then reached out in the darkness to grab hold of Ira’s shirt, pulling him back and spinning him around to pin him against the wall. Ira huffed a surprised laugh, lifting his arms as Lore began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Finally performing your duty as retainer,” Ira teased. But his voice came out a little breathless, taking the sting out.

Lore didn’t answer, eyes lowered to his work. When he’d opened the shirt to the collar, he slid his hands suddenly across the planes of the warlord’s belly. They were cold and Ira gasped, surprised and aroused as goosebumps rose on his skin.

But he recovered himself and caught Lore’s wrists where they snaked around him. Ira should have known better, after introducing Lore to Yael. Lore twisted out of it effortlessly and started to spin away.

“Hey!” Ira caught him by his loose clothing and pulled him back. Their bodies collided roughly, and a laughing scuffle had ensued, as Ira tried to get hold of Lore and Lore drew him into the room, toward the bed, evading him with a clever smile.

Backed up against the assassin’s low platform bed, Ira let Lore win. He signalled his submission by flopping backwards, letting the assassin divest him of his clothing without further argument. As Lore unbuckled the braces on his forearms and tugged his shirt out from under Ira’s body, Ira reached up to run his fingers through Lore’s long hair and caress those long limbs whenever they came into reach. Lore – so untouchable and dangerous – here within arm’s length. He felt like he was dreaming.

Ira had to stand up once Lore started on his pants. Once naked Ira found himself suddenly uncertain. He was on unfamiliar ground here. He froze as Lore stepped back to admire his handiwork with a teasing smile.

Solstice trysts were not Ira’s forte. He hadn’t done this…any of this…for a long time. He felt awkward under the assassin’s gaze, and cold.

“Lore…” he said softly. His uncertainty must have showed because the teasing smile dropped from Lore’s lips and suddenly he was pulling off his own loose clothing, his movements rough and urgent. Then he was naked too, a shadow among the shadows.

He was as unselfconscious as he had been at the hot spring, walking smoothly toward Ira over his discarded clothing with lithe purpose.

This time, though, Ira didn’t have to stop himself from staring.

Lore pushed his warlord back to sit on the edge of the bed, then climbed up beside him, kneeling, and put his mouth next to Ira’s ear.

“Ira.” He couldn’t see him perfectly in the dim light, but the impression of long hard muscles and expanses of skin was enough to make his breath catch as the desire that had been burning in him flared to sudden life.

“I haven’t done this in a long time…”

A dark chuckle.

“Its okay. Neither have I.”

Lore, blissfully, led the way. As he leaned over Ira, hand on the warlord’s chest and stomach, Ira slid his own hands up over Lore’s back, delighting in the way it made Lore shudder. They both paused there, Ira feeling Lore’s breath ghost over his lips, until Lore bent to kiss him, tender this time – the playfulness gone.

There was no hurry now, that kiss said. No danger. It was the solstice. They had all night.

But Ira was tired of waiting.

He lay back and pulled Lore down with him, unresisting, so that their bodies were pressed together against their entire length.

Lore made a little noise of pleasure that almost undid Ira right then. His breath grew ragged at the sensation of all that warm skin against him, sliding over him as the assassin moved. His hands tightened on Lore and, tangling their legs together, he flipped them over so that Lore was on his back.

Lore’s blue eyes widened in initial surprised and then narrowed again under long lashes as the assassin bit his lip.

“So impatient,” the assassin chastised.

Ira didn’t answer, lowering his mouth to Lore’s neck, trailing kisses from his hairline to his collar bone. At some point his long black hair had come free of its ties, and now it fell around them, cool and dark like a heavy curtain.

Lore tasted of salt and sweetness. When Ira reached the soft skin of Lore’s collar he added teeth – just a little - and he was rewarded with another gasp of pleasure as Lore arched up against him.

“You like that.” Ira made it a statement, his voice low and gravelly, and Lore made a little sound of ascent.

“What do you want, Lore?” Ira asked quietly.

There was no more question what Lore wanted…no more doubt. But Ira needed to hear it, suddenly, from Lore’s mouth.

“I think you know.” Lore’s voice was delightfully ragged around the edges. Ira’s hand slid down his flat stomach, cupped a hip possessively and squeezed. Lore’s uninhibitedness had divested Ira of the last of his self-consciousness. Now he wanted to draw everything out, drink in the delicious sights and sounds of the assassin’s desire.

“Tell me anyway,” Ira said stubbornly. Lore pressed up into his hand, but Ira held his body down, firm. Through his palm he could the little shivers and quakes that went through Lore’s body every time their bodies shifted against each other.

“I want you….” Lore’s voice was dark – a little desperate. “I’ve wanted you for so long. Ever since I first saw you…” His head was tilted back, eyes closed. He was so beautiful – lips parted, olive skin glowing with a fine sheen of sweat, pupils dilated to dark pools, rough blonde hair a halo. Ira regarded him. The man he had distrusted for so long, spread out naked before him on rumpled sheets, open and vulnerable. It made Ira ache.

“Please, Ira…”

Ira smiled slowly, saying nothing.

But when Lore started to beg, near incoherent, Ira gave him what he wanted.

Soon he was lost himself in the feeling of Lore’s warmth skin and the soft sounds of his pleasure.

**~*~Epilogue~*~**

Ira woke the next morning naked and tangled in Lore’s long olive limbs. The fire had gone out while they slept, but they were warm under furs.

He stirred and felt a jolt of excitement at the feeling of his body sliding against Lore’s soft skin. The assassin was still unconscious and breathing deeply, his fine features relaxed, blond hair a halo around him.

Ira woke him gently, hands sliding up the planes of Lore’s lean body until his long lashed fluttered open and fixed Lore with their crystal blue gaze.

Ira smiled as the events of the previous evening flashed into his mind. A smile played on Lore’s lips as he woke to find Ira looking at him, and he stretched against the warlord’s body. Under the blankets Lore’s hand found Ira’s stomach and began to trace a line along across his hips.

Ira, not in the mood to be teased, grabbed his wrist and pushed it over his head, flipping Lore’s supple body over on his back and leaning in to capture his mouth…

There was a soft knock at the door.

Both of them jumped, their eyes meeting. Who the hell could possibly be banging on Lore’s door on the morning after solstice?

Whoever it was, Ira thought, they could fuck off.

Lore apparently had the same thought. He turned his head to glare at the door.

“Go away!” Lore yelled.

There was a pause, and then Yael’s voice said,

“I would, but its important. There are riders from the pass, and Rov is looking for Ira.”

Lore’s surprised blue eyes met Ira’s again, and Ira groaned softly in resignation, releasing Lore and falling onto his back on the bed next to him. He knew what this was.

This was important. It was news of Tavish.

Lore was having none of it.

He carefully untangled himself from the warlord, and stood, wrapping a blanket around his waist for decency. He went to the door, sliding it open a crack.

“And what makes you think he’s here?” the assassin hissed. Ira watched his back from the bed, amused.

“A hunch,” said Yael irritably. Her tone made it clear that it was not a hunch. There was a pause as the two eyed each other.

Ira couldn’t see Yael, but he could imagine the look on her face. He sat up and began looking for his clothing.

As Ira knew he would, Lore broke first. No one out-glares Yael. He sighed and looked over his shoulder at Ira, who was pulling on a crumpled shirt from the floor.

His eyes flicked over the naked warlord appraisingly. There was mischief in them.

“Tell Rov he’ll be with her presently,” said Lore. Then added cheekily,

“once he’s found his trousers.” Ira, from the bed, growled,

“Yael, don’t you dare.” Yael was silent a moment as she absorbed this. Then she said,

“I’ll leave out the last part, out of loyalty to you both. Be quick, she’s seconds away from having the castle torn apart.”

“Fine.” Lore slammed the door shut harder than necessary. Ira gave him a look, and Lore dropped his blanket in a pool on the floor. Then he walked back to Ira to run fingers through his dark hair, trying to bring it into some semblance of order. Ira stopped him with a kiss, which Lore returned. When they separated, Lore made a face.

“You have a bruise on your neck where I bit you.”

“I’ll wear my cloak.”

“No one will be fooled.”

Ira shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.” It didn’t, really.

“Where will you be when I’m finished?” He hated the sound of neediness in his voice, but couldn’t keep his desire for Lore hidden. Once awoken and acknowledged, it burned in him like a dull ache that could only be satisfied by the assassin’s touch.

Lore heard it and smiled seductively at him, lips curling up with that expression of mischievousness. He lowered his eyelashes coyly.

“Where would you like me to be?” he purred.

“Here. Just like this,” Ira murmured. He was transfixed. His gloved hand trailed a line down Lore’s bare chest and belly. 

“Hmm. Okay.” Lore stretched, arms over his head, and turned back to his bed. Ira’s eyes followed him, hungry. Lore’s body was beautiful – all hard muscle and warm olive skin. He could ignore Yael, he thought. Rov had been waiting all morning. What was another, say, fifteen minutes? It wouldn’t take long…

The thought was interrupted by Yael banging on the door a second time.

“I’m not joking,” she shouted irritably, “she needs you immediately! And I have no motivation to keep your secrets, Lore!”

Ira sighed, resigned. He turned away from Lore and took the three steps to the door, which he jerked open, making it rattle. He glared down at her with his best feared-warlord-of-all-Cairn look.

Unintimidated, she just raised an eyebrow at him, lips pursed.

“Ah, there you are sir. Shall we, then?”

He should have known better. He glanced back briefly, longingly, at Lore, and then slipped out of his room, closing the door softly behind him. Yael was already walking briskly away, down the hallway. Resigned, Ira followed.

~*~

“Tavish is dead,” said Rov when Ira arrived in her chambers a few minutes later.

“And Merk has retreated with the army. Our horsemen rode the whole pass. Found their camp abandoned and signs of their retreat. When they finally caught them they were much lower. Nearly to the border. Our people made themselves known and Merk sent this.” She passed him a folded piece of paper.

 _Tavish and Brail are dead_ , it read, _they betrayed me as they betrayed you, and I have no desire to see out the campaign on Cairn. In the spring, send messengers to Abosa and we will arrange for peace talks._

Ira looked up from the letter.

“Its better than we had hoped.” Rov nodded.

“We can relax again.” Ira folded the paper and passed it back to his queen.

“Well then, what now?” he asked presently.

“I must see my brothers home,” she replied. “after that I think there is no pressing business except for us to take stock of our losses and consider how we can begin to replace out food stores and horses for next year.”

Ira nodded thoughtfully.

“What should be done with the assassin?” she asked, “you know him better than I do, now. He is welcome to stay of course, but he will need some sort of role.”

Ira looked at her sharply. How much did she know or guess?

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that…” he said carefully. She raised a brow, sensing he was about to propose something she wouldn’t like.

“He told me he wants to go back to his home. To the school. His brother was a great loss for him. And beyond that, he has bad memories of his time with Brail. I think he’s looking for some kind of closure.”

Rov was nodding. Ira sucked in a hesitant breath.

“I thought I might go with him.”

She stopped nodding, then, and her voice took on an icy tone. One brow arched.

“You thought what?”

“I might go with him. Miko is more than ready to take my place here. You have no need for me.”

“Miko is impulsive and not nearly so experienced as you.”

“She’s learned a lot these last few weeks, I think you’ll find.”

Rov was silent for a while. Finally she said,

“you are, of course, free to do as you will Ira.”

Ira bowed his head.

He would miss her. She was his closest friend and ally. The only mentor he had known.

“Thank-you Rov. You know I would not make this decision lightly.”

“I known.” Then, “I suppose the two of you got to know each other rather well on campaign.”

This was said with a calculated lightness.

Ira didn’t know what to say, so he settled for, “Yes my lady. He saved my life in a number of occasions”

“And you’ve become… _attached_ ,” she pressed.

“you could say that,” said Ira a bit stiffly. The Queen smiled at him, enjoying his discomfort.

“Well, in that case I will let you go.”

Ira dropped his eyes respectfully. “Thank-you Rov.”

The Queen narrowed her eyes calculatingly. “But if he breaks your heart, he’ll have to answer to me.”

Ira couldn’t help himself. He blushed.

“I think he knows that, Rov,” he said finally, flustered.

She sniffed. “See to it,”

Ira saluted her and let himself out.

~*~Fin~*~

We FINALLY got there! 

I had a lot of fun writing this little fic. Thanks to everyone who read and commented. <3 


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